Husba 


i^HKBnBKKBaHBHBiHMBHBMvaMHHHHKiBmaaa*H^^v~i 

Irwin 


i 


SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 
WALLACE  IRWIN 


SUFFERING 
HUSBANDS 


BY 

WALLACE    IRWIN 

AUTHOR  OF  "VENUS  IN  THE  EAST,"  "PILGRIMS  INTO  FOLLY," 
"LETTERS  OF  A  JAPANESE  SCHOOLBOY,"  ETC. 


NEW  XBr  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyright,  1916, 1917, 1918, 
by  The  Curtis  Publishing  Company 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 
I 

ALL  FRONT  AND  No  BACK 13 

II 
MONKEY  ON  A  STICK 55 

III 
PEACHES  AND  CREAM 97 

IV 
THUNDER i36 

V 
THE  GOAT 161 

VI 
THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED 188 

VII 
FREE 244 

VIII 

GASLESS  SUNDAY 29° 

IX 
MOTHER'S  MILK 324 


2136163  • 


SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


SUFFERING    HUSBANDS 

i 

ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK 


A  YEAR  and  nine  days  after  their  honeymoon  found 
Norma  McKeen  cooking  eggs,  somewhat  fastidiously, 
in  the  ridiculous  little  kitchenette  that  served  the 
magnificent  dining  room  at  whose  Sheraton  table  sat  Na 
thaniel  Conway  McKeen,  an  architect,  scowling  over  his 
morning  mail.  The  McKeens  in  those  days  occupied  an 
apartment  of  two  rooms  which,  if  you  stopped  soon  enough, 
conveyed  the  effect  of  twenty.  Their  drawing-room  was 
thirty  feet  across,  gave  an  appearance  of  mediaeval  grand 
eur,  flaunted  a  dishonourably  accurate  Flemish  fireplace,  a 
panelling  that  was  almost  Tudor,  and  many  pieces  of  grace 
fully  galumphing  furniture.  Among  these  a  great  Charles  II 
settee  held  the  McKeens'  grateful  affections;  it  was  not 
only  handsome,  impressive,  capable  of  luxuriously  seating 
a  fat  half  dozen,  but  also,  after  this  inestimable  service, 
could  be  unfolded,  massaged  and  swaddled  into  a  passably 
comfortable  bed.  All  this  in  a  straight-fronted  apartment 
house,  where  rents  were  gloriously  high  and  Fifth  Ave 
nue  was  within  easy  robbing  distance;  a  sort  of  kingly 
squalor  of  which  Norma  was  growing  discouraged  and 
weary  this  morning  as  she  fished  two  eggs  out  of  the  sim 
mering  kettle,  eased  them  into  a  bowl,  and  went  forth 
to  face  her  baffled  lord. 

13 


14  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

As  she  fitted  an  egg  into  the  little  cup  before  him,  she 
had  merely  to  glance  over  his  shoulder  and  read  the  letter 
head  on  the  sheet  over  which  he  pored  so  bitterly,  crackling 
the  paper  between  his  nervous  fingers.  Daily  for  a  year 
she  had  turned  a  new  page  in  Nat's  calendar  of  failures, 
and  this  one  could  be  no  surprise. 

"Pigs,  pigs,  pigs!"  he  kept  saying  over  and  over  again, 
like  some  angry  swineherd  scolding  a  rebel  flock. 

"Is  it  about  the  Drayville  Courthouse,  dear?"  she  asked 
soothingly  as  she  lowered  her  eyes  to  the  egg  she  was 
decapitating. 

"The  usual  result !"    He  tossed  the  letter  to  the  floor. 

"Whose  designs  were  accepted?"  She  was  determined 
not  to  betray  any  weakening  spot  in  her  lines. 

"Whose  do  you  think?" 

He  broke  his  egg  with  a  murderous  spoon. 

"Hannan,  Gay  &  Moore,  of  course!  They  have  only 
to  make  two  scratches  on  a  sheet  of  white  paper  and  the 
bourgeois  fools  everywhere  scramble  to  give  'em  the  job. 
They've  got  the  world  bluffed." 

"They've  been  at  it  a  great  many  years,  my  dear,"  she 
pointed  out,  daring  at  last  to  look  at  the  crushed,  withered 
expression  that  had  been  weakening  his  face  these  humili 
ating  months. 

She  was  two  or  three  years  older  than  he  and  her  atti 
tude  toward  him  was  passionately  maternal.  She  wanted 
to  pick  him  up,  smooth  his  hair  and  shove  him  back  into 
the  fight  from  which  he  was  shrinking. 

"Bluff!"  he  barked  out,  his  narrow  handsome  features 
all  awry.  "Nothing  but  bluff  counts  in  this  business." 

"In  that  case  we  should  be  worth  untold  millions." 

"We've  gone  at  it  the  wrong  way,  somehow.  Hannan, 
Clay  &  Moore  have  put  efficiency  into  the  job.  They've 
got  society  feeding  out  of  the  hand.  Look  at  Ambrose 
Hannan!  Squeaking  little  ape!  His  wife  gave  him 
entree " 

Norma  winced  at  the  thrust.    She  didn't  think  Nat,  even 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  15 

under  the  whip  of  failure,  would  say  that  to  her.  He  had 
tossed  the  truth  at  her,  and  she  wore  it  like  a  kimono  of 
nettles;  for  Nat  had  married  her  under  the  supposition 
that  she  would  furnish  the  very  thing  Mrs.  Hannan  had 
given  her  ape  of  a  husband. 

"I'm  sorry,"  was  all  she  allowed  herself  to  say. 

"Hannan  everywhere!"  he  went  on  savagely.  "I  saw 
his  plans  for  this  Drayville  Courthouse.  Pompous  rub 
bish!  Imitation  of  all  the  Carnegie  libraries  on  earth." 

"You  might  have  done  better,"  she  suggested  coolly, 
"if  you  had  not  sent  in  a  made-over  plan  for  your  Vulga 
rian  Renaissance." 

By  his  look  she  knew  her  joke  had  been  ill-timed.  But 
it  was  a  joke  between  them,  this  elaborate  palace  plan, 
over  which  they  privately  snickered  the  gibe  "Vulgarian 
Renaissance"  and  publicly  referred  to  as  Nat's  "Gregorian 
Villa."  Artistically  it  was  a  potboiler  that  had  turned  into 
an  Irish  stew,  compounding  all  the  architectural  periods 
into  one  luscious  mass.  Poor,  snobbish  artist  that  he  was, 
Nat  had  planned  it  in  bitterness,  underestimating  the  good 
taste  of  self-made  men. 

"It  looks  just  as  much  like  a  courthouse  as  it  does  like  a 
private  dwelling,"  Nat  defended  in  an  injured  tone.  "Be 
sides,  I  added  a  lot  of  Doric  pillars  to  the  facade." 

"I  didn't  think  it  looked  like  a  courthouse."  She  stuck 
to  her  point. 

"Well,  what  in  the  world  does  it  look  like?  I  designed 
it  for  a  brand-new  millionaire's  perfectly  grand  country 
house.  You  made  me  think  it  was  a  sure  thing.  I've 
revised  it  till  you  can't  tell  the  front  door  from  the  back. 
People — decent  people — treat  me  like  an  idiot  newsboy!" 

Suddenly  he  was  upon  his  feet,  a  small  trim  figure,  nicely 
dressed,  showing  a  keen,  sensitive  little  face,  now  distorted 
with  rage  and  disappointment. 

"I  tell  you,  Norma,"  he  raved,  "we  are  being  shunned — 
shunned!  Nobody  that  is  anybody  ever  comes  to  see  us, 
invites  us  anywhere,  accepts  our  invitations.  Meantime 


16  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^ "^ " ~ ™ mm**~*^~ ""T^*^^*1 

my  business  is  gone  to  pot.  I  had  a  pretty  good  run  of 
small  stuff  until  I  went  against  this  millionaire  game.  I've 
had  only  one  order — and  that  a  miserable  little  job — since 
we  were  married.  I'm  stung!" 

"Let's  buck  up,  old  man!"  she  pleaded,  rising  to  meet 
him  and  taking  him  firmly  by  the  lapels  of  his  coat.  "We 
haven't  tried  all  the  people  in  the  world  yet — it  takes  a 
little  time;  and  when  you're  started " 

She  couldn't  finish,  so  faint  became  her  heart  to  see  the 
crushed  look  that  had  come  upon  this  man  who  had 
swaggered  a  little  and  spoken  so  cocksurely  of  his  future 
in  the  days  before  they  were  married. 

"We'll  have  to  sell  out,"  he  complained  with  one  of  his 
dramatic  gestures  round  the  glories  of  their  pretentious 
abode.  "And  a  lot  we'd  get  for  these  fakes!  There  isn't 
a  stick  in  the  apartment  that  isn't  bogus  somehow.  It's 
like  this  darned  life  we  lead — phony,  phony,  phony!" 

"Nothing's  phony  until  it's  discovered."  Quite  inno 
cently  she  uttered  the  sophistry  that  has  made  many  a  noble 
counterfeiter. 

He  picked  his  hat  and  coat  from  a  chair  and  stood, 
-glaring. 

"We'll  find  another  string  to  our  bow,"  she  promised 
confidently,  and  knew  how  insipidly  the  words  fell. 

"If  I  were  an  Ambrose  Hannan,"  he  railed,  "I'd  get 
somewhere.  Always  scampering  in  and  out — the  little 
rat!  Do  you  know  what  he's  nibbling  now?" 

Norma  was  unable  to  guess. 

"Percy  Ferguson's  new  country  house." 

The  name  brought  back  to  her  an  era  in  her  life,  not 
long  past,  when  she  had  run  errands  for  Mrs.  Percy  Fergu 
son  and  taken  favours  from  her  kindly,  patronising  hand. 

"I  didn't  know  they  were  back.  They've  been  out  West 
for  over  a  year." 

"Came  up  from  Florida  this  week.  Old  Percy's  going 
to  build  a  five-hundred-thousand-dollar  house  in  Roslyn, 
and  Hannan  was  at  the  Grand  Central  Station  to  greet  him 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  17 

with  a  brass  band,  you  can  bet !  I  saw  them  yesterday  at 
the  Architects'  Club — as  thick  as  thieves.  Probably  Mrs. 
Hannan  is  working  the  other  end  of  the  game — introducing 
Mrs.  Ferguson  where  it'll  do  the  most  good.  Teamwork !" 

Nat  was  charging  toward  the  front  door  when  Norma, 
inspired  by  her  despair,  called  after  him: 

"I  might  do  something  with  Marian  Ferguson.  I  know 
them— at  least  I  did." 

"How  well?"    He  swung  round  and  faced  her  hungrily. 

"I  met  them  first  at  Colorado  Springs,  just  after  Percy 
had  made  his  first  million  or  two — cattle  and  mines.  He 
was  a  wild  man  from  the  hills,  and  she  was  a  country 
school  teacher.  I  taught  Marian  how  to  dress  and  Percy 
how  to  eat.  Percy  came  East  and  turned  his  fortune  over 
and  over  in  iron;  and  I  took  Marian  round  a  great  deal. 
She  really  owes  me  something,  I  think." 

"Well,  Hannan's  building  their  house."  Nat  stuck  to 
it  doggedly. 

"I  don't  think  he  could  have  persuaded  Percy  so  soon. 
Percy's  an  independent  old  savage;  a  perfect  cannibal, 
with  a  genius  for  good  cooking.  We  might  ask  them  to 
dinner." 

"Dinner!     Is  he  savage  enough  to  eat  canned  goods?" 

Poor  Nat  glared  toward  the  kitchenette  that  had  mal 
nourished  them  these  many  days. 

"No;  Percy  is  the  fanciest  feeder  in  all  the  world,"  she 
wailed  after  him  as  he  disappeared  behind  the  front  door. 

Norma  McKeen  sighed,  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of  her 
calico  morning  dress,  and  set  about  washing  the  breakfast 
dishes.  During  all  the  years  she  had  walked  the  social 
slack  wire  she  had  never  felt  so  giddily  panic-stricken  as 
now.  And  for  many  years  she  had  maintained  herself  in 
her  chosen  stratum  by  dint  of  some  rather  ingenious  acro 
batics.  Up  to  the  time  of  her  marriage  she  had  been  one 
of  those  girls  whom  you  meet  and  perhaps  sit  beside  at  table 


i8  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

in  the  best  houses  of  New  York  and  its  more  prosperous 
suburbs. 

You  weren't  supposed  to  know  that  her  well-fitting 
gowns  had  been  made  over  from  the  offcast  of  some 
wealthy  patroness;  or  that  she  appeared  at  dinners  only 
when  somebody  who  was  somebody  sent  regrets  at  the 
last  moment ;  or  that  she  wrote  difficult  notes  and  did 
troublesome  shopping  for  the  ladies  in  whose  country 
houses  she  spent  luxurious  week-ends,  always  entertaining 
the  dullest  guest,  making  a  fourth  where  the  bridge  was 
poorest.  You  weren't  supposed  to  know  that  she  heard 
her  symphony  concerts  when  the  governess  begged  off  and 
the  Canningmore-Troutt  children's  culture  must  proceed; 
or  that  she  sat  in  the  diamond  horseshoe  only  on  nights 
when  the  cast  was  mediocre  and  the  tickets  might  as  well 
be  used. 

Norma  had  always  sung  for  her  supper. 

As  a  reward  of  patience  and  industry  she  had  been  per 
mitted  to  breathe  some  of  the  air  that  had  become  habitual 
to  her  during  the  years  when  her  father  had  four-flushed 
his  way  through  the  financial  district  of  lower  Manhattan. 
As  a  well-bred,  poverty-stricken  person  of  no  great  family 
connections,  much  savoir-faire  and  satisfactorily  mild  ac 
complishments,  she  had  got  her  winters  in  Southern 
resorts,  her  cruises  on  well-appointed  yachts,  occasional 
European  trips,  many  dinners  of  magnificent  dulness,  a 
splendid  wardrobe  of  slightly  worn  apparel — a  cold  bath  in 
the  great  world's  glamour.  She  had  had  one  or  two  chances 
to  marry;  but  the  picking  had  been  poor.  Norma  at  her 
prettiest  had  been  a  Burne- Jones  type,  a  rather  futile  claim 
to  attractiveness  in  a  society  which  worships  the  definite, 
be  it  beautiful,  banal,  brilliant,  decadent  or  mysterious. 
Then,  too,  most  of  her  tete-a-tetes  had  been  for  the  cheering 
or  occupation  of  superfluous  husbands. 

After  she  had  rounded  the  desperate  headland  of  thirty- 
five,  Norma  had  made  up  her  mind  to  marry,  to  take  her 
place  in  the  world  and  cease  running  errands  for  the  rich. 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  19 

She  had  met  McKeen  at  an  awfully  Bohemian  studio  party 
in  New  York,  and  later  had  got  him  an  order  to  design 
an  unimportant  country  house  for  the  very  prosperous 
Waddells,  for  whom  she  was  then  doing  her  bit  as  general- 
utility  girl.  . 

Norma  had  seen  in  McKeen  a  latent  genius,  needing,  so 
she  thought,  a  little  managing  to  bring  it  out.  She  had 
thought,  too,  that  it  would  be  a  graceful  arrangement  if, 
as  his  wife,  she  could  introduce  him  and  his  art  into  the 
society  for  which  she  had  legged  it  faithfully  those  many 
years. 

At  any  rate,  they  were  married;  and  Norma  had  been 
happy  in  her  alliance  with  this  man  whom  she  admired  and 
in  whose  future  she  trusted  implicitly.  She  had  been  a 
trifle  disappointed,  perhaps,  that  so  few  people  came  to 
their  wedding.  But  the  presents  were  lavish,  which  was  a 
comfort  even  though  they  were  selected  on  the  Chinese 
platform  that  possible  utility  is  an  insult.  Directly  after 
their  honeymoon  Nat  went  to  work  on  a  small  job,  and  the 
commission  kept  them  comfortable  for  a  while.  Meantime 
she  had  busied  herself  pushing  buttons  and  pulling  wires 
in  the  regions  of  Long  Island  and  Westchester  County 
that  had  known  her  so  well. 

It  had  come  to  her  gradually,  as  unpleasant  truth  has  a 
considerate  way  of  doing.  Mrs.  Tillinghasset-Bleeze  asked 
her  in  one  morning  to  chat  during  a  manicure;  Mrs. 
Canningmore-Troutt  invited  her  to  a  very  third-rate  tea. 
The  fact  that  she  was  being  snubbed  had  dawned  unpleas 
antly.  She  was  like  a  faithful  servant  dismissed.  The 
houses  she  had  adorned  so  accommodatingly  knew  her  no 
more.  And  this  was  a  mystery  until  at  last  she  had  real 
ised  that,  as  a  married  woman,  she  could  no  longer  be 
summoned  to  be  the  handy  minute  girl  she  had  been  as  a 
dependent  spinster,  and  that  her  money  and  her  connec 
tions,  being  nonexistent,  did  not  warrant  her  cultivation 
for  herself  alone. 

This  December  morning,  her  bluish  cotton  sleeves  rolled 


20 


up  above  the  elbows,  Norma  scraped  plates  and  reflected 
that  she  had  done  it  all  for  love — a  consolation  which  any 
woman  who  has  married  rather  unsuccessfully  may  enjoy. 
She  had  cultivated  a  fierce  protective  passion  for  this 
rather  futile  architect  who  never  had  any  orders.  She 
still  saw  in  him  the  confident,  the  enthusiastic  boy  she  had 
known  during  the  days  when  they  were  engaged;  and  she 
accused  herself,  and  herself  alone,  for  his  failures. 

Norma  AIcKeen,  who  had  worked  hard  so  many  years 
in  order  that  somebody's  servants  might  wait  upon  her, 
scrubbed  and  scraped  this  morning  over  the  sink  in  her 
hot  little  kitchenette.  The  room  in  which  she  toiled  was  a 
miserable  blue-tiled  galley,  three  feet  wide  by  six  long, 
with  a  niche  for  a  gas  range  and  another  for  a  sink — one  of 
the  abominations  the  unhealthy  crowding  of  large  cities  has 
devised.  It  outraged  her  natural  instinct  for  wide  spaces. 

Norma  hated  that  kitchenette;  and  this  morning  she 
longed  to  toss  its  puny  fixtures  out  of  the  window  into  the 
court  below.  It  had  no  exit  into  the  hallway,  and  her  only 
means  of  taking  out  garbage  or  taking  in  groceries  was 
by  way  of  the  pretentious  door  in  that  magnificent  Tudor 
room.  Once  there  had  been  a  real  kitchen  with  a  real  door  ; 
but  Nat  couldn't  see  so  much  space  devoted  to  mere  utility ; 
therefore  the  kitchen  walls  had  vanished  and  the  door 
had  been  panelled  over  at  the  spot  where  the  English  Shera 
ton  sideboard  now  stood. 

To-day,  as  she  lugged  the  heavy  unpleasant  pail  through 
the  splendours  of  that  big  room,  she  had  an  impulse  to 
desert  at  once,  go  somewhere,  learn  a  trade  and  do  some 
thing  human.  Instead,  she  plodded  doggedly  ahead,  clat 
tered  the  hated  zinc  receptacle  on  the  tiles  outside  and 
rang  for  the  janitor  to  take  it  away.  Then  she  rolled  down 
her  sleeves  and  flung  herself  down  upon  the  imitation 
tapestry  of  a  handsomely  carved  chair. 

Reflection  now  brought  her  round  again  to  the  Percy 
Fergusons.  Nat,  quite  truthfully,  had  said  they  had  only 
canned  goods  in  the  house ;  but  Norma  well  knew  how  far 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  21 

a  good  meal  and  an  intimate  conversation  would  go  with 
that  rhinoceros-hided  old  vulgarian.  In  the  days  when  she 
had  served  her  humble  confidential  time  in  the  Ferguson 
household  she  had  alternately  feared  and  admired  the  crusty 
gourmet,  who  bore  the  effeminate  name  of  Percy  as 
lightly  as  a  travelling  crane  might  carry  a  wreath  of  roses. 

Mrs.  Ferguson,  too,  had  always  made  a  point  of  her  kind 
ness.  She  had  told  Norma  tearfully  before  her  marriage 
"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you !"  and  had 
sent  her  regrets  to  the  quiet  little  wedding. 

Feminine  intuition,  that  miraculous  gift  which  has  got 
man  into  scrapes  ever  since  the  days  of  Eve,  told  Norma 
that  now  was  the  time.  The  favours  were  not  all  on  Marian 
Ferguson's  side  of  the  account  book.  Also,  old  Percy  was 
a  man  of  independent  judgments;  and  an  evening's  talk 
with  Nat  would  do  much  to  neutralise  the  blandishments 
of  Ambrose  Hannan. 

Such  a  telephone  as  Queen  Elizabeth  might  have  em 
ployed  in  her  flirtations  with  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  offered 
its  artistically  antiqued  mouthpiece  from  the  vantage  of  a 
Tudor  desk  at  her  elbow.  The  Fergusons  always  stopped 
at  the  St.  Vitus,  she  remembered ;  and  the  air  was  charged 
with  electric  hope  as  she  got  the  number  and,  after  a  pause, 
heard  Marian's  somewhat  arrogant  contralto  in  reply: 

"Why — Norma!  You  sweet  child,  how  are  you?  I 
thought  I  should  never  see  you  again.  Couldn't  you  come 
to  see  me?  Or — let  me  see — I'm  so  desperately  busy. 
We're  only  in  town  till  to-morrow." 

"I  just  couldn't  let  you  go  through  town  without  our 
getting  a  glimpse  of  you." 

Like  a  singing  bird  Norma  gushed  the  speech,  so  heartily 
was  it  said. 

"Oh,  I  should  like  to  see  you !    Let  me  think " 

This  was  less  encouraging.  Norma  had  hoped  vaguely 
for  an  invitation  to  dine,  which  would  have  settled  every 
thing  for  the  poor  McKeens. 

"I  have  shopping  all  day  until  five,  when  I  must  go  to 


22  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

the  Colony  Club,  and "    Again  the  contralto  paused  to 

compute. 

Norma  drew  a  long  breath,  and  was  out  with  it : 

"Couldn't  you  dine  with  us  to-night,  Marian  dear?" 

Lost  in  a  corner  of  that  princely  mediaeval  drawing-room, 
eagerly  leaning  over  Queen  Elizabeth's  own  telephone,  she 
felt  her  head  swim  with  the  importance  of  that  impending 
reply.  She  had  promised  Nat  to  pull  the  last  string  to  her 
bow.  And  if  it  snapped 

"It's  awfully  kind  of  you,"  came  the  leisurely  drawl 
that  Marian  Ferguson  had  studied  so  carefully  these  last 
years.  "We're  in  town  such  a  short  time,  and " 

"Oh,  but  I  do  so  want  you  and  Percy  to  meet  my 
prodigy !" 

"We've  heard  such  splendid  things  about  him!"  cooed 
Mrs.  Ferguson  with  that  approximation  of  a  London  accent 
so  often  and  so  badly  done  in  New  York's  fashionable 
environs. 

She  paused  again,  a  semicolon's  worth  this  time;  then 
unexpectedly  said: 

"We  shall  be  delighted." 

"I'm  so  glad!"     This  was  genuine. 

"But,  Norma  dear,  don't  do  anything  elaborate  for  us. 
Just  make  it  a  little  home  dinner." 

"Don't  worry  on  that  score — we  live  ever  so  simply," 
said  Norma,  thinking  wildly  of  Lucullan  banquets,  duck 
bleeding  wealthily,  terrapin  moistened  with  ripe  old  Span 
ish  sherry — the  kind  of  thing  old  Percy  had  savagely  de 
manded  every  night  at  the  Ferguson  table. 

"About  eight,  then?  Expect  us,  you  sweet  thing!"  was 
Marian  Ferguson's  valedictory  as  she  hung  up  the  tele 
phone. 

It  was  over;  and  Norma,  a  frail  dot  in  the  splendours  of 
that  vast  room  which  so  cleverly  suggested  an  ancient 
aristocracy,  got  out  her  horizon-blue  scratch  pad  and  hastily 
began  to  figure.  In  inviting  the  Fergusons  to  dinner  she 
had  literally  thrown  all  her  coin  upon  the  table.  Old 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  23 

Percy,  she  knew,  fed  like  an  anaconda — if  you  can  imagine 
a  serpent  with  a  tooth  exquisitely  keyed  to  fish,  flesh  and 
fowl  out  of  season.  To  bring  him  to  her  apartment  and 
insult  his  appetite  would  be  worse  than  useless;  she  must 
feed  him  much  and  well. 

At  once  she  thought  of  the  best  cuisine  in  New  York — 
Tanquay's  Restaurant,  which  for  fifty  years  had  permitted 
the  world  to  acknowledge  its  superiority.  She  would  raise 
the  money  somewhere;  and  regretfully  she  thought  of  her 
few  jewels.  She  would  order  two  or  three  courses  from 
Tanquay's,  hire  an  emergency  butler  for  ten  dollars,  per 
haps,  and  do  the  rest  on  bluff. 

There  was  a  general-utility  worker,  a  mulatto  by  the 
name  of  Moselle  White,  who  came  in  twice  a  week  to  scrub 
and  cook.  Yes ;  Moselle  roasted  a  chicken  rather  well  and 
could  prepare  a  few  vegetables  to  help  fill  the  Fergusonian 
maw. 

Norma  figured  a  while  on  the  blue  pad.  It  came  rather 
high,  add  and  subtract  as  she  would.  Then  she  went  over 
to  the  little  bureau  behind  the  big  screen,  opened  a  top 
drawer,  and  took  out  the  bulk  of  her  treasure.  There  was 
a  large  black  opal  brooch,  cunningly  set  with  sapphires  and 
emeralds  on  a  ground  of  old  French  enamel.  It  had  been 
given  her  by  a  patronising  dowager  in  the  days  before 
black  opals  were  fashionable.  In  the  palm  of  her  right 
hand  Norma  weighed  the  brooch,  while  over  the  forefinger 
of  her  left  she  dangled  a  little  blue  bracelet  watch,  set  with 
a  crown  of  small  diamonds.  Nat  had  got  her  that — on 
credit — as  his  groom's  gift  to  her. 

She  didn't  want  to  spoil  her  eyes  by  crying;  so  she 
dropped  the  trinkets  in  her  hand  bag  and  went  quickly  about 
dressing  for  the  street. 

II 

For  years  Norma  had  enjoyed  a  peculiar  acquaintance 
ship  with  the  head  waiter  at  Tanquay's,  whom  the  gastric 


24  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

world  knew  and  acclaimed  under  the  name  of  Pierre.  He 
was  a  Franco-Hungarian-Alsatian  who  had  learned  his 
trade  in  the  city  of  Mexico,  and  who,  some  said,  had  flat 
tered  America  by  taking  out  his  first  papers.  In  the  days 
of  her  gilded  thralldom  Norma  had  gone  often  to  Pierre 
confidentially  to  order  expensive  dinners  for  such  rich 
friends  as  were  too  busy  with  golf,  auction  bridge,  and 
like  real  work  of  the  world  to  bother  with  small  routine. 
Norma  had  gone  behind  the  scenes  with  Pierre  and  they 
had  learned  to  talk  frankly  together — two  souls  engaged 
in  the  same  traffic,  and  aware  of  its  tricks. 

Norma,  of  old,  had  brought  much  patronage  to  Tan- 
quay's  ;  and  she  had  a  feeling  this  morning,  as  she  climbed 
the  stairs  to  the  second  floor  of  this  famous  building,  that 
Pierre  would  be  useful  in  arranging  the  Ferguson  dinner. 

She  found  the  tall,  bald,  clever-looking  man  seated  in  a 
swivel  chair  before  a  mahogany  desk,  dictating  to  a  secre 
tary  and  employing  all  the  vocal  dignity  of  a  great  cor 
poration  lawyer — which  he  was,  somewhere  inside. 

"Ah,  Mrs.  McKeen !"  he  cried,  rising  and  giving  her  his 
capable  hand ;  she  was  not  surprised  that  he  knew  her  mar 
ried  name,  for  Pierre  was  omniscient. 

"And  how  have  you  been,  Pierre  ?"  she  asked,  taking  the 
chair  his  secretary  rolled  up  beside  the  desk. 

"Excellent But  the  work,  of  course,  is  fatiguing," 

he  informed  her,  the  deep  lines  in  his  intelligent  mask  of  a 
face  confirming  his  statement.  "Tanquay's  has  never  seen 
so  big  a  season.  We  are  becoming  too  popular,  if  you  know 
what  I  mean.  New  York  is  overflowing  with  wealth 

from "     He  swept  out  his  long  arms,  indicating  all 

America.  "And  it  is  a  pity  that  we  must  turn  crowds  away 
every  night." 

"Oh !  Then  perhaps  you'll  be  too  busy  to  attend  to  my 
little  order."  She  was  approaching  him  on  the  economical 
tack. 

"I  never  found  you  parsimonious."  He  smiled  diplo 
matically. 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  25 

"Ah,  but  it's  different  now.  I'm  ordering  for  myself." 
The  shade  in  Pierre's  expression  was  minute.  "We're 
planning  a  little  dinner  for  four  in  my  apartment,"  she 
went  on  rapidly.  "We  can't  afford  to  be  extravagant ;  but 
it  must  be  nice.  So  I  thought  I  would  order  a  few  things 
from  Tanquay's  and  let  my  cook  do  the  rest.  I've  come 
for  your  advice." 

"I  should  be  glad  if  there  is  anything  I  can  suggest." 

He  said  it  in  a  tone  of  such  genuine  friendliness  that  she 
was  encouraged  to  ripple  on : 

"My  Moselle  roasts  a  chicken  rather  nicely  and  does 
candied  sweet  potatoes  very  well.  I  thought,  with  some 

French  peas And  she  could  manage  the  soup,  too," 

she  finished,  almost  defiantly. 

A  shocking  vision  came  to  her  of  how  Moselle  White 
would  manage  the  soup.  It  would  probably  come  out  of  a 
can. 

"Of  course,  if  you've  a  very  good  cook "  He  gave 

her  one  of  his  forty-thousand-dollar  shrugs,  which  was  as 
much  as  to  say  "Why  talk  to  me?" 

"Well,  Pierre,"  she  said  brashly,  "what  would  you  sug 
gest  for  a  roast?" 

"If  your  guests  really  prefer  chicken,"  he  tolled  off  in 
measured  tones,  "there's  chicken  d  la  Tanquay.  It's  rather 
simple,  I  should  say.  This  will  be  a  simple  dinner?" 

Norma  had  a  memory  of  other  days,  when  she  was  a 
guest  at  a  board  where  old  Ferguson  presided,  croaking 
dismally  because  imported  Southdown  lamb  was  not  done 
to  his  liking. 

"I  should  call  my  guests  rather  particular,"  she  con 
fessed  after  a  pause. 

"Then,  Mrs.  McKeen,  will  you  permit  an  old  friend  to 
speak  candidly?" 

His  attitude  was  so  paternal,  so  genuinely  earnest  that 
Mrs.  McKeen  could  not  take  offence  at  his  analysis  of  their 
relation. 

"If  your  guests  are  fastidious,  as  you  say,"  he  continued, 


26  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^ 

"I'm  a  little  afraid  that  home-baked  chicken  and  the  other 
things  you  have  planned  might  not  do.  The  average  New 
York  cook,  you  know,  is — what  shall  I  say? — a  vandal. 
She  does  chicken  about  as  Jenghiz  Khan  scorched  it  over 
the  camp  fire.  Between  friends,  tell  me — do  you  wish  to 
make  an  impression?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  going  to  this  expense  otherwise,"  she 
agreed,  rather  crossly. 

"Then  let  me  tell  you:  You  know  as  well  as  I  what 
good  food  is."  Glorified  by  the  compliment,  she  allowed 
him  to  proceed :  "I  should  have  an  Egyptian  runner  duck. 
It  will  cost  a  trifle  more,  but  the  result  will  be  worth  it. 
Potatoes  au  gratin,  as  we  do  them,  and  hothouse  aspara 
gus,  with  sauce  universelle,  would  be  enough  of  vegetables. 
You  do  not  want  to  have  too  much." 

His  able  secretary  was  at  that  moment  laying  before 
him  several  sheets  of  tentative  menus,  subject  to  his  edit 
ing.  He  thumbed  them  abstractedly  before  resuming: 

"We  can  send  you  a  butler  who  will  make  cocktails  from 
your  materials — there  will  be  a  saving!  And  with  them 
you  should  have  a  canape  of  fresh  Russian  caviar.  Our 
clear  green  turtle  soup  is  especially  good  this  week.  For 
fish " 

"We  might  have  sole  supreme  aux  champignons''  she 
cut  in,  remembering  the  comparative  economy  of  the  dish. 

"Some  might  like  it."  Thus  he  uttered  his  condemna 
tion.  "Last  night  Mrs.  Pelham  Brodley  gave  a  small  party 
here  and  praised  our  diamond-back  terrapin  very  highly." 

Her  inference  was  rapid.  The  Brodleys  were  thick  with 
the  Fergusons.  Hannan,  Gay  &  Moore  had  planned  the 
new  Brodley  house  in  upper  Fifth  Avenue. 

"I'm  sure  that  would  be  very  nice,"  she  weakly  concurred. 

By  now  Norma's  mind  had  collapsed  and  permitted  itself 
to  become  infolded  by  this  man's  superior  will.  Before 
his  magic  her  own  programme  of  semihome  cooking  faded 
into  the  realms  of  the  sordid  and  impossible.  Pierre  was  a 
hypnotist.  Out  of  the  depths  of  his  mahogany  desk  he 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  27 

summoned  rich  delicacies  which  the  snob  within  her 
clamoured  to  offer  for  appeasement  of  the  very  rich  Fer 
gusons.  Gratins  and  salads  seemed  to  fly  at  her;  vintage 
wines  arose  at  the  will  of  this  black  wizard;  heavy  pluto 
cratic  cigars  seemed  to  mock  her  from  the  box. 

There  was  an  exotic  dessert — by  name,  Peche  Reine  des 
Fees — which  Pierre  seemed  bent  upon  her  having.  She 
feebly  expostulated;  but  the  king  of  all  the  waiters  pursed 
a  hand  above  an  imaginary  plate  and  explained  how 
very  dry  champagne  could  make  magic  things  of  hot 
house  peaches  which  were  stuffed  with  nuts  and  sauced 
with  wild  French  strawberries.  She  capitulated  to  his 
charm,  then  rose  and  asked  him  to  make  out  the  bill.  It 
was  staggering;  but  Norma  had  in  her  bag  the  roll  of  bills 
she  had  obtained  from  the  broker  who  had  taken  her 
jewelry. 

"Have  we  credit  with  Tanquay's?"  she  asked  as  lightly 
as  she  could. 

"Just  a  moment,  Mrs.  McKeen.  Let  me  inquire,"  smiled 
Pierre  with  that  affability  which  discourages ;  he  was  reach 
ing  for  the  telephone. 

She  stopped  him  hastily ;  for  she  realised  that  Tanquay's 
must  know  what  all  New  York  appeared  to  know — that 
Nat  was  months  behind  with  every  creditor  he  had. 

"I  think  it's  simpler  to  settle  now,"  she  informed  him 
coolly  as  she  opened  her  bag  and  peeled  off  green  and  yel 
low  leaves  from  the  lettuce  head  of  bills. 

"Our  butler  will  be  there  at  six,"  he  said,  "and  your 
order  will  come  about  seven.  Please  let  me  know  if  every 
thing  is  not  satisfactory." 

She  thanked  him  and  was  just  turning  away  when  Pierre 
intercepted  her. 

"And  flowers?"  he  was  asking  as  she  turned  to  escape; 
he  reached  to  his  desk  and  held  out  a  small  vase  containing 
three  orchids  of  unearthly  ugliness.  "Mandarin  orchids," 
he  was  explaining.  "Very  fashionable  this  season." 


28  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

She  fled  abruptly,  leaving  in  her  trail  the  weak  excuse 
that  she  would  buy  from  her  florist. 


in 

She  went  dizzily  out  of  Tanquay's  and  made  the  rounds 
of  small  shopping,  reflecting,  with  every  withering  raid 
upon  her  bank  roll,  that  the  Fergusons  must  not  escape 
them,  now  that  everything  was  at  stake.  In  the  course 
of  her  walk  she  called  upon  Nat  in  his  office,  which  was  a 
pretentious  attic  in  the  upper  thirties. 

"The  Fergusons  are  coming  to  dinner,"  she  announced 
blandly  to  her  husband,  who  leaned  over  a  drawing  board, 
his  one  remaining  draughtsman  labouring  beside  him. 

"They're — what?"     He  blinked  at  her  and  scowled. 

The  draughtsman,  who  was  young,  meek  and  skinny,  scur 
ried  away  from  the  storm;  and  as  soon  as  they  were  alone 
Norma  explained. 

"That's  bully!"  concurred  Nat  unexpectedly,  giving  her 
the  kiss  that  was  always  a  reward.  "I'm  sorry  I  was  cross; 
but  I  was  worried  sick.  Can  Percy  be  influenced?" 

"He's  got  to  be !"  she  told  him. 

"Well,  I  guess  we've  got  enough  credit  at  the  grocer's — 
if  they  can  stand  Moselle's  cooking." 

She  caught  herself  on  the  verge  of  telling  him  how  she 
had  ordered  the  entire  dinner  from  Tanquay's;  how  she 
had  pawned  her  brooch  and  watch.  Instead,  she  patted  his 
shoulder  and  smiled. 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  Moselle  and  planning  a  perfect 
orgy."  Clumsily  she  knocked  a  sheaf  of  stiletto-pointed 
pencils  to  the  floor;  and  as  she  reached  to  pick  them  up 
she  urged:  "You  must  go  right  to  work,  old  boy,  and  do 
a  new  water-colour  sketch  of  your  Vulgarian  Renaissance. 
The  old  sketch  looks  awfully  shabby  and  dog-eared.  Bring 
all  your  plans  home  to-night.  We're  going  to  make  good 
this  time." 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  29 


Nat  suddenly  turned,  walked  across  the  room,  and  stood 
gazing  over  the  roofs. 

"What  faith  you've  got!''  he  growled,  never  looking 
round  as  she  passed  out. 

Moselle  White  came  to  assist  at  about  three  o'clock.  As 
she  worked  by  the  hour,  she  was  seldom  on  time,  and  gave 
to  herself  the  airs  peculiar  to  all  specialists.  She  was  a 
type  of  the  Manhattan-bred  negress,  which  is  an  exotic  in 
all  the  world.  Carefully  avoiding  the  rich  accents  of  her 
Virginian  mother,  she  imitated  the  drawl  of  all  the  ladies 
she  attended.  There  were  rhinestones  in  her  hair,  and  over 
her  bulbous  curves  she  wore  a  skin-tight  gown  of  black 
satin  and  kittenish  cut.  High  cafe-au-lait  shoes  emboldened 
the  effect. 

"I'm  going  to  give  a  dinner  to-night,  Moselle,"  explained 
Norma  as  soon  as  her  caller  had  assumed  an  apron.  "I 
want  to  have  it  rather  elaborate;  so  I've  ordered  it  sent 
in  from  Tanquay's." 

"That  will  be  delightful,  I'm  sure,"  commented  Moselle 
in  measured  accents. 

"Now,  Moselle,"  pleaded  her  temporary  mistress,  "don't 
be  sensitive.  I  have  all  the  worries  I  can  stand.  Please 
get  to  straightening  up  the  apartment." 

Moselle,  softened  to  a  sort  of  truce,  exposed  her  muscular 
bronze  forearms  and  applied  herself  with  a  will  to  the 
process  of  tidying.  Bare  strips  of  floor  were  waxed  to  a 
gleam,  mahogany  was  rubbed,  mirrors  polished;  and  if  oc 
casionally  the  sarcastic  echo  of  "Tanquay's — my  word!" 
came  from  afar  to  the  busy  Norma,  she  was  too  wise  to 
risk  discipline  in  these  rough  seas. 

When  Nat  came  home  at  six  o'clock  he  was  a  sprightlier 
Nat  than  Norma  had  beheld  since  the  days  of  illusion  that 
followed  their  honeymoon.  Apparently  he  had  swallowed 
despair  and  now  saw  only  the  colour  of  rose.  Norma  was 
very  tired,  but  his  shining  face  restored  her. 


30  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

, 1 

"By  George,  Norma,  that  was  a  stroke  of  business!"  he 
told  her.  "We're  beginning  to  learn  teamwork." 

He  carried  under  his  arm  a  long  roll  of  plans,  and  would 
have  interrupted  her  in  the  work  of  washing  her  best  set  of 
china  had  she  not  raised  an  affectionate  appeal. 

"Can't  you  see  I'm  busy,  boy?"  she  chided,  already  lifted 
out  of  her  depression.  "Now  run  along  and  get  out  the 
silver." 

"Sketches  for  Percy  L.  Ferguson's  Gregorian  Villa!"  he 
crowed,  unrolling  the  scroll  of  cardboard :  "I've  been  at  the 
water  colour  all  day." 

Proudly  he  showed  the  white  fagade  against  an  idealised 
Italian  sky,  tall  poplars  garnishing  the  somewhat  obvious 
driveway  in  the  foreground. 

"You  feed  'em,  Norma,  and  I'll  do  the  persuading,"  he 
assured  her  in  that  tone  of  cocksureness  which  had  once 
conveyed  to  her  the  impression  of  genius.  "What  sort 
are  they?  Ferguson  looks  like  a  prehistoric  ground  sloth." 

"The  ground  sloth  was  a  vegetarian,"  she  informed  him. 
"Percy  growls  over  his  meat  and  kills  at  sight.  It's  Marian 
I  intend  to  influence.  She's  rather  nice,  I  think,  when  you 
get  under  the  enamel — a  bit  purse-proud ;  but  she's  always 
been  kind  to  me." 

He  did  not  seem  to  care  for  the  humility  of  her  tone, 
for  he  took  her  up  short  with : 

"We'll  be  kind  to  her  when  we  get  on  our  feet." 

At  half  past  six  a  temporary  butler,  wearing  just  the 
proper  arrangement  of  side  whiskers  and  h's,  appeared 
from  Tanquay's  and  tried  at  once  to  bully  Moselle.  Nat 
gave  himself  up  to  the  languors  of  a  tub  in  the  pygmy  bath 
room  off  the  Tudor  hall.  Peeking  into  the  kitchenette, 
Norma  could  see  Moselle  and  the  butler,  whose  name  was 
Nudds,  standing  crowded  together  and  quarrelling  in  their 
various  dialects. 

"A  bit  close  in  'ere,  I  call  it,"  sallied  Nudds. 

"It  was  meant  for  one  help,"  replied  she,  regarding  him 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  31 

loftily.  "Two  couldn't  sit  in  this  space — unless  they  sat 
in  each  other's  laps." 

This  stroke  quite  defeated  Mr.  Nudds,  who  tiptoed  into 
the  dining  room  and  set  to  work  arranging  the  table. 

At  a  quarter  of  seven  the  dinner  from  Tanquay's  ar 
rived  by  the  front  door.  Norma  was  partly  dressed  by  this 
time;  but  she  was  quick  to  slip  on  a  kimono  and  superin 
tend  the  commissary  advance  across  the  big  living  room. 
She  was  glad  that  Nat  was  still  deep  in  his  dressing,  for  she 
dreaded  his  detailed  inquiries  into  that  wild  extravagance. 

At  last  the  uniformed  escort  departed.  The  boxes,  pails 
and  packages,  so  cunningly  prepared  by  professional  hands, 
were  ingeniously  piled  in  the  already  overcrowded  galley. 
The  handy  Nudds,  at  her  bidding,  rolled  a  high  Chinese 
screen  out  of  the  drawing-room  and  arranged  it  as  a 
camouflage  to  conceal  the  kitchen  door. 

Then  Norma  went  about  the  completion  of  her  toilet. 
Among  the  minor  details  of  her  afternoon  she  had  found 
time  to  put  a  homemade  wave  in  her  hair.  She  found  no 
difficulty  in  selecting  her  evening  gown,  a  sea-green  affair 
which,  like  Walter  Pater's  vampire,  had  died  and  been  re 
stored  a  thousand  times.  Before  the  mirror  in  the  bathroom 
Nat  was  carolling  like  a  lark. 

Norma,  too,  was  wasting  a  few  vain  glances  upon  the 
glass  of  her  little  bureau.  She  approved  of  herself  and  was 
quite  right  in  her  belief  that  never  before  had  she  looked 
younger  or  so  pretty.  Occasionally  she  would  peep  round 
to  take  another  look  at  the  white-clothed  table,  glittering 
with  her  wedding  crystal,  glorious  with  roses.  She  flattered 
herself  with  the  feeling  that  never,  in  any  of  the  wealthy 
homes  where  once  she  had  been  a  satellite,  had  a  little  din 
ner  been  better  laid.  It  gave  her  a  sense  of  luxury  which, 
poor  girl,  was  more  necessary  to  her  being  than  the  mere 
bread  and  meat  of  life. 

A  bell  rang. 

"Telephone,  dear !"  sang  out  Nat,  interrupting  a  luscious 
whistle. 


32  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Now  nicely  arrayed  for  the  evening,  still  smiling  in  con 
templation  of  her  reviving  charm,  she  went  over  to  the 
Elizabethan  telephone  and  put  the  receiver  to  her  ear.  Mrs. 
Ferguson's  contralto  drawl  was  waiting  for  her: 

"Norma,  my  dear!  We're  so  sorry!  My  Bobby — poor 
little  chap! — has  come  to  town  to  see  the  doctor  about  his 
throat,  and  I  must  be  with  him  to-night." 

"I'm  sorry  too.  I  hope  it  is  not  serious,"  said  Norma  in 
the  sweetest  possible  tone. 

"You  must  think  it  frightful  of  us.  If  it  were  anybody 
but  my  precious  boy !  I'm  dreadfully  worried  about  him. 
You  must  think  me  a  beast  to  be  letting  you  know  so 
late " 

"Don't  give  it  a  second  thought,  my  dear  Marian,"  said 
Norma  in  the  yielding  voice  her  long  slavery  had  taught 
her. 

"It's  dreadful  to  upset  your  plans " 

"Oh,  it  was  only  a  little  home  dinner,"  she  assured  her 
rapidly,  hoping  to  end  it  all  before  her  endurance  gave  way. 
"We  must  see  you  both  soon.  Good-bye !" 

She  hung  up  the  receiver  and  burst  frankly  into  tears. 
Presently  Nat,  nicely  attired  for  a  festival  and  well  pleased 
with  himself,  came  sauntering  out. 

"Why,  Norma !"  He  stopped  in  the  midst  of  his  rounde 
lay. 

"The  Fergusons!"  she  wailed,  and  repeated  it  several 
times.  "The  Fergusons!" 

"You  can't  mean " 

"They  aren't  coming!  Their  brat  of  a  boy's  sick — the 
last  minute.  They  aren't  coming !" 

Nat  began  whistling  again;  but  this  time  it  was  harsh 
and  shrill,  like  the  wail  of  a  midnight  siren  announcing 
fire.  Through  the  mist  Norma  could  see  the  elegant  Mr. 
Nudds,  perfect  as  to  attitude,  shirt  front  and  side  whiskers, 
guarding  the  mockery  of  a  dining  room. 

"Well,"  said  Nat,  rising  unexpectedly  to  the  occasion, 
"it's  about  the  first  civilised  meal  we've  faced  for  ever  so 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  33 

long.  Let's  powder  our  noses  and  sit  down  and  pre 
tend " 

"Every  cent  we  have  in  the  world !"  she  raised  her  ulula- 
tion;  not  being  tearful  by  habit,  she  gave  herself  up  utterly 
to  the  rare  luxury.  "I've  pawned  my  brooch — I've  pawned 
my  bracelet  watch  to  order  this  dinner  from  Tanquay's!" 

"You've   what — ordered   from   where?" 

"From  Tanquay's.  It  cost  over  a  hundred  dollars !  What 
shall  we  do  ?" 

"Well,  of  all  the What  got  into  your  head,  Norma  ?" 

"The  Fergusons  had  to  be  fed,"  she  madly  excused  her 
self,  as  though  she  had  been  speaking  of  starving  Belgians. 

"Well,"  he  said  flatly,  "the  dinner's  getting  cold  and 
somebody's  got  to  eat  it." 

"We  can't!"  she  told  him  wildly.  "It  cost  a  hundred 
dollars — it  would  poison  us." 

And  at  that  desperate  thought  Norma  stood  up,  raised 
a  hand  to  her  back  hair — and  was  herself  again. 

"Nat,"  she  cried,  squeezing  his  arm  in  a  viselike  grip, 
"there  ought  to  be  some  one  in  New  York  willing  to  pay  for 
that  dinner!" 

"There  you  go  again!  Haven't  you  had  enough  bright 
ideas  for  one  day?" 

Norma,  who  had  a  way  of  charging  headforemost  when 
she  wanted  what  she  wanted,  had  now  again  bounded  to 
the  near-Elizabethan  telephone.  The  line  was,  of  course, 
busy;  and  when  she  got  into  connection  with  Tanquay's 
she  found  that  Pierre  was  busy  also. 

"I  don't  want  the  captain — tell  Pierre  that  Mrs.  Nathaniel 
McKeen  must  speak  to  him." 

"It's  the  rush  hour,  madam.  There  are  a  great  many 
people  waiting.  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  him." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  McKeen,"  came  Pierre's  smooth  voice  much 
sooner  than  she  had  expected. 

"I'm  sorry  to  bother  you  when  you're  busy,"  she  began, 
not  without  design. 


34  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"We're  having  a  very  heavy  night,"  he  replied,  some 
what  impatiently. 

"Good !  That's  just  my  point Pierre,  are  you  turn 
ing  people  away,  as  you  said  you  had  been  doing?" 

"I'm  afraid  we  shall  be  unable  to  accommodate  several 
large  parties,  madam,"  came  his  stiff  reply. 

"Then  I  want  to  co-operate  with  you.  If  you  have  a 
nice  party  of  four  you're  turning  away,  would  you  mind 
sending  them  to  my  apartment  to  eat  my  dinner?" 

"I  beg  pardon,  Mrs.  McKeen?"  he  shrugged  over  the 
wire. 

"The  dinner  you  just  sent  to  me.  I've  been  disappointed 
in  my  guests  at  the  last  moment.  I  couldn't  afford  the  din 
ner  in  the  first  place,  and  I  certainly  can't  afford  to  throw 
it  away.  Of  course,  if  Tanquay's  are  willing  to  rebate  to  me 
the  amount " 

"I'm  afraid  that  would  be  a  little  irregular,"  he  suavely 
informed  her.  A  pause.  "You  say  it's  for  four?" 

"Yes — the  dinner  I  ordered." 

"There's  a  very  special  party  here  asking  for  a  private 
room.  We  shan't  be  able  to  accommodate  them.  Just  a 
minute !" 

There  came  a  long  blank  spell,  during  which  she  kept 
her  eyes  upon  Nat's  nervous  patent  leathers,  pacing  the 
rug. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Nat,  stop  pacing  up  and  down  like  a 
caged  hyena." 

"Mrs.  McKeen?"  Pierre's  voice  came  back  at  last.  "I 
have  arranged  it  with  the  party.  Shall  I  send  them  to  you  ?" 

"Send  them  to  my  apartment,"  she  commanded  eagerly. 
"Have  them  ask  for — for  Mrs.  Jones." 

"What  name?" 

"For  Jones,"  echoed  the  wire  and  the  communication 
closed  with  a  click. 

"Well!"  said  Nat,  pausing  severely  in  front  of  her. 
"This  is  the  end  of  a  perfect  day !" 

"No,  it  isn't,"  replied  his  wife  briskly,  restored,  sparkling, 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  35 


prepared  to  turn  a  forlorn  hope  into  a  triumphant  adven 
ture.  "If  you'll  let  me  alone  I'll  get  our  money  back  and 
make  ten  or  twelve  dollars  out  of  it." 

"I'll  let  you  alone,  if  that's  all  you  want,"  he  said  sulkily. 
"Be  sensible  and  come  out  to  dinner  with  me." 

"And  leave  my  apartment  with  a  lot  of  strangers  and  a 
head  waiter?  Nat,  be  a  good  boy!  Go  over  to  the  club 
and  have  a  nice  quiet  evening.  I'll  stay  and  manage  the 
kitchen." 

"Suppose  it  should  get  round!  Suppose  it  should  leak 
out  that  we  were  running  a  sort  of  private  restaurant !" 

"I'll  look  out  for  that,  dear,"  she  sighed  wearily.  "Now 
please  run  along!" 

"Well,  of  all  the "  he  began  feebly. 

"Can  you  suggest  a  better  way  out  of  this  mess?"  she 
questioned  sharply ;  and  for  reply  he  went  charging  for  the 
big  front  door. 

Norma  was  now  determined  that  this  evening  should  be 
as  much  a  mystery  as  possible  to  her  paying  guests.  As 
soon  as  Nat  was  well  gone  she  stepped  into  the  hall  and 
told  the  elevator  boy  about  the  mythical  Mrs.  Jones. 

"She's  stopping  with  me,"  lied  Norma,  "and  expecting 
guests  for  dinner.  When  they  ask  for  Jones,  bring 
them  up." 

In  the  dining  room  she  found  the  man  from  Tanquay's, 
erect  as  a  sentinel  awaiting  a  gas  attack. 

"Nudds,"  said  she,  "I  want  you  to  move  that  Chinese 
screen  a  little  closer  to  the  kitchen  door  so  there  will  be 
room  for  us  to  work  behind  it.  I  am  Mrs.  Jones — do  you 
understand?  And  when  the  guests  arrive  you  are  to  show 
them  to  the  table,  serve  the  dinner,  and  collect  for  it." 

"Collect,  ma'am?"  His  eyes,  which  were  very  small, 
projected  from  his  little  face  like  the  orbs  of  a  boiled 
lobster. 

Norma  hurried  over  to  her  desk,  for  time  was  money 
with  her  now.  On  a  leaf  of  her  frivolous  horizon-blue  pad 
she  scrawled  a  dollar  mark,  with  several  numerals  there- 


36  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

after.  Just  as  she  was  handing  the  slip  to  Nudds  the  door 
bell  rang.  It  was  a  merry  note.  Fervently  she  hoped 
they  wouldn't  be  the  noisy  sort. 

"I  turn  everything  over  to  you,"  she  whispered  to  Nudds, 
and  cowered  into  the  kitchenette  beside  the  voluptuous 
Moselle. 

To  make  matters  interesting,  Moselle  began  at  once  to 
frame  an  elegant  indictment  of  Mr.  Nudds. 

"If  he  continues  his  impertinence,"  she  proclaimed,  "I 
shall  be  obliged  to  go!" 

"If  you  do,"  hissed  Norma  in  her  ear,  "I  shall  discharge 
you !" 

In  a  saner  moment  she  would  doubtless  have  chosen  a 
more  logical  threat.  But  it  had  the  effect  of  confusing 
the  enemy;  for  Moselle,  subdued,  continued  stirring  the 
soup. 

Curiosity  got  the  better  of  Norma.  She  could  hear  the 
front  door  click  and  the  reverberation  of  treble  and  basso 
in  the  big  room.  Through  a  crack  in  the  Chinese  screen 
she  could  see  the  four  of  them — two  couples — milling  about 
the  spacious  floor,  impertinently  examining  bric-a-brac  and 
pictures.  The  sight  bruised  her  pride,  yet  touched  her 
humour;  she  was  glad  she  had  locked  all  intimate  photo 
graphs  away  in  the  little  bureau. 

"What  a  bee-oo-tiful  place!"  a  little  woman  in  pink  was 
cooing;  but  a  larger  and  older  woman,  who  loomed  indis 
tinctly  in  the  aesthetic  shadows  of  mediaeval  splendour, 
seemed  out  of  sorts  with  the  hulking  gentleman  whose  form 
Was  just  visible  beyond  the  Charles  II  settee. 

"I  don't  like  the  idea  of  it!"  she  was  protesting  in  a 
deep  contralto  drawl. 

A  smaller  man,  perfectly  bald  and  with  a  little  mincing 
walk,  swung  into  view  and  said  in  a  peppery,  staccato  voice : 

"Quite  amusing — yes,  yes — quite  amusing!" 

Norma's  mouth  felt  the  torture  of  Tantalus  as  Nudds 
moved  forward,  bearing  the  cocktails  and  expensive 
canape  of  fresh  Russian  caviar.  The  paying  guests  held 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  37 

their  glasses  in  a  convivial  circle,  while  the  spy  longed  to 
steal  forth  and  view  them  at  close  range,  so  sharp  became 
her  curiosity.  Only  a  little  woman  in  pink  could  she  see 
plainly.  She  was  pretty,  under  forty,  and  showed  an  elfin 
smile,  full  of  wit  and  spitefulness. 

Just  as  they  were  putting  down  their  glasses  and  begin 
ning  to  move  toward  the  dining  room,  a  moment  of  delicious 
expectancy  was  spoiled  by  the  fat  shadow  of  Moselle. 

"Shall  I  put  the  soup  in  these?"  inquired  the  saddle- 
coloured  duchess,  daintily  poising  a  porridge  bowl  in  each 
hand. 

"For  heaven's  sake!"  Norma  bounded  back  to  the 
kitchenette. 

Patiently  she  spread  four  soup  plates  on  the  homoeopathic 
kitchen  cabinet  and  began  to  ladle  out  portions  of  the 
precious  green  liquid.  She  saved  out  half  a  cupful  for  her 
self — which  shows  she  had  in  her  the  makings  of  a  good 
servant.  Outside  she  could  hear  the  mingled  voices  of  the 
party  coming  into  the  dining  room.  So  close  were  they 
now,  she  was  stricken  with  fear  that  one  of  them,  bolder 
than  the  rest,  might  peep  behind  the  screen  and  catch  her 
clad  as  for  an  occasion,  sandwiched  in  between  Moselle  and 
the  helpful  Nudds. 

"Quite  charming !"  the  treble  voice  went  shrilling  past. 

"Rather  clever  faking,  the  whole  place,"  spoke  the  acrid 
staccato.  "This  room  looks  almost  real — first  glance.  Can 
vas  stretched  over  plaster,  enamelled  to  look  like  wood. 
Jove,  those  fake  Fragonard  panels  fooled  me  for  a  minute !" 

Nudds  had  now  gone  forth  with  the  soup,  and  Norma 
sprang  back  to  her  spying  behind  the  screen.  It  proved 
very  poor  peeping,  for  the  crack  through  which  she  looked 
was  at  a  bad  angle  and  the  dining  room  had  been  dimly 
lit,  with  regard  to  effect.  By  squinting  painfully  she  could 
see  the  guests  taking  their  seats  within  the  faint  nimbus 
shed  by  candelabra. 

"For  the  love  of  barley !"  The  big  man  at  that  moment 
raised  his  voice  like  the  creaking  of  a  rusty  hinge.  "Waiter, 


38  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

turn  on  some  lights.  This  place  must  be  run  by  a  lot  of 
women.  I  can't  see  the  way  to  my  soup." 

Norma  flew  to  a  more  commanding  spy  hole  just  as  the 
obliging  Mr.  Nudds  pressed  his  thumb  to  the  switch,  flood 
ing  with  light  the  large  ivory-tinted  room,  with  its  dim, 
painted  panels.  The  whole  picture,  thus  uncomprisingly 
outlined,  came  to  her  in  the  matter-of-fact  way  with  which 
we  sometimes  view  the  unbelievable.  .  .  . 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Percy  Ferguson  were  giving  a  little  din 
ner  party  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ambrose  Hannan ! 

The  thing  had  all  the  obviousness  of  a  miracle.  There  sat 
old  Percy,  under  the  uncompromising  light  he  demanded, 
his  shapeless  dinosauric  body  hunched  over  his  plate,  while 
his  sallow  dyspeptic  head  craned  forward  in  the  delicious 
toil  of  eating.  The  large  angular  lady,  with  the  stringy 
neck  and  iron-grey  hair  arranged  somewhat  old-maidishly, 
revealed  herself  as  Marian  Ferguson  by  the  characteristic 
gesture  with  which  she  reached  for  the  salt.  Ambrose 
Hannan  had  lost  most  of  his  hair  since  Norma  had  last 
seen  him,  five  years  before;  but  he  was  still  fidgety,  opin 
ionated  of  glance,  and  still  retained  the  mannerism  of  mark 
ing  off  spaces  in  the  air  which  characterised  the  prince  of 
American  architects. 

"Percy,  why  did  you  let  Pierre  send  you  to  this  place?" 
nagged  Mrs.  Ferguson,  having  finished  her  soup.  "For  all 
we  know  the  food  may  be  poisoned." 

How  devoutly  Norma,  crouching  in  ambush,  wished  she 
had  thought  of  it  in  time! 

"You  would  have  a  private  room !"  croaked  the  big  man 
with  the  withered  head  as  he  raised  bilious  eyes  above 
his  feeding.  "You  know" — he  turned  gloweringly  upon 
Mrs.  Hannan,  on  his  right — "when  Marian  gets  a  notion  she 
wants  to  dodge  somebody  she'll  charter  a  submarine  or  go 
up  in  a  balloon.  Expense  is  nothing.  Comfort  is  nothing." 

He  chewed  savagely  at  a  dinner  roll. 

"I  know  the  feeling,"  agreed  Mrs.  Hannan  in  her  light, 
teasing  little  voice.  "Man  can  die  but  once.  And  to  be 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  39 

bored  to  death "  She  tossed  up  her  delicate  hands  and 

rolled  her  snappy  black  Japanesque  eyes. 

"I  never  found  Norma  such  a  bore,"  grunted  that  terrible 
Percy. 

"You  wouldn't,  my  dear,"  cooed  Mrs.  Ferguson  ever  so 
softly.  "You  always  had  a  fondness  for  swindlers." 

"Now,  Molly,  that's  calling  names!"  creaked  old  Percy. 
"When  Norma  Wayley  was  legging  it  for  you  I  didn't 
notice  you  locking  up  the  silver.  You  were  mighty  glad  to 
let  her  write  your  checks  for  you.  You  never  put  a  padlock 
on  the  baby  when  she  came  in  to  understudy  the  governess. 
Rich  women  are  a  tribe  all  by  themselves.  Don't  you  think 
so,  Mrs.  Hannan?" 

"Don't  scold  me!"  tinkled  the  little  woman  banteringly. 
"I'll  never  be  burned  for  my  wealth." 

"Poor  Norma!"  sighed  Mrs.  Ferguson  in  a  tone  that 
urged  the  spy  behind  the  screen  to  rush  forth  and  end  it 
all  in  a  frightful  massacre. 

"Oh,  let  up !"  broke  in  the  reformed  wild  man.  "It  seems 
to  me  there  was  a  time  when  Norma  did  a  great  deal  for 
you." 

"That  will  be  all,  my  dear !"  Marian  glared  so  icily  that 
even  old  Percy  felt  the  chill. 

"She  was  that  Wayley  girl,  wasn't  she?"  Mrs.  Hannan 
seemed  to  pursue  the  subject  with  ghoulish  glee.  "Didn't 
she  marry  some  sort  of  architect,  dear?"  She  levelled  the 
query  at  her  husband,  who  sat  abstracted  in  the  details 
of  the  room. 

"Nat  McKeen,"  he  barked  out.  "I  see  him  sometimes  at 
the  club.  Cleverish  sort  of  chap;  but  nothing  thorough 
about  him.  When  I  see  those  poor  devils  drilling  along 
into  middle  age,  continually  scouting  for  an  opening  some 
where,  it  makes  me  think  that  ours  is  a  terribly  overcrowded 
profession.  Darn  it!  I  feel  sorry  for  'em  too.  Nothing 
ahead  of  'em!" 

"We  can't  all  be  great— eh,  Hannan?"  gibed  Ferguson 


40  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

with  a  rusty  little  cackle,  rolling  the  small  eyes  that  always 
reminded  Norma  of  an  angry  elephant's. 

"Poor  Norma !"  again  sighed  Marian,  by  way  of  diver 
sion.  "I  should  think  she  could  push  a  husband  into  success 
if  anybody  could.  Bashfulness  was  never  one  of  her  faults. 
If  she  had  been  a  trifle  better  looking  and  hadn't  tried  so 
hard  she  might  have  married  very  well  indeed.  But  men 
saw  through  her,  I'm  afraid.  Calculating  little  piece !" 

"In  our  shining  circle  it's  a  black  crime  to  be  a  calculating 
little  piece,  ain't  it?"  grumbled  old  Percy.  "Our  young 
ladies  always  linger  in  rosy  bowers,  thinking  of  nothing  but 
pure  romance,  until  along  comes  J.  W.  Charming,  with  a 
permanent  wave  in  his  voice;  so  they  are  married  and  live 
happy  ever  afterward  in  a  two-room  flat  in  Jersey  City. 
Do  they?  They  don't." 

"Percy,  you're  outrageous  to-night,"  criticised  his  wife 
smoothly. 

"Excuse  me,  darling,"  he  replied  with  the  mockery  of  a 
smile,  "but  I  think  you  gave  the  McKeens  a  pretty  raw 
deal." 

"Sweetheart,"  she  drawled,  "I  didn't  intend  they  should 
invite  us  to  their  apartment  and  proceed  to  take  advantage 
of  an  old  friendship.  I  know  Norma  wanted  something;  I 
realised  it  as  soon  as  I  had  hung  up  the  receiver.  She's 
always  on  the  make ;  and  I  have  no  way  of  knowing  what 
sort  of  an  adventuress  she  has  degenerated  into." 

"Well,  from  what  I  know  of  the  tribe,  any  one  who  gets 
anything  out  of  a  rich  woman  earns  it,"  creaked  Percival. 

"I  hear,  round  the  Architects'  Club "  Ambrose 

Hannan  was  opening  disclosures  when  the  fascinating 
horror  of  it  was  broken,  literally,  by  an  awful  crash 
from  behind.  Distracted  unwillingly  from  the  black  biog 
raphy  of  the  McKeens,  Norma  glanced  round  and  beheld 
Moselle  moaning  over  a  mound  of  broken  china.  She  was 
too  numb  for  reproach,  and  set  to  work  gathering  up  the 
fragments. 

Meantime  Nudds  was  fussing  indignantly  over  the  terra- 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  41 

pin,  which  Moselk  had  treated  in  the  manner  of  ordinary 
hash.  Nudds  expostulated;  Moselle  snorted.  In  her  ex 
citement  she  had  forgotten  her  cultivated  New  York  accent 
and  had  returned  to  the  voice  of  the  plantation: 

"Lan'  sakes !  Why  yo'-all  tryin'  to  ack  laik  millionaires 
in  a  kitchenette  ?" 

"Shut  up!"  hissed  Norma  with  decisive  vulgarity. 

Nudds  was  now  bearing  forth  the  dish  Mrs.  Pelham 
Brodley  had  flattered  in  the  sight  of  Pierre.  Norma,  lean 
ing  daintily  in  her  party  gown,  was  mopping  the  mess  from 
the  kitchenette  floor. 

At  last,  when  she  could  leave  Moselle  to  weep  silently 
in  the  sink,  Norma  again  took  up  her  post  at  the  screen. 
Morbidly  she  hoped  the  table  would  still  be  echoing  scanda] 
of  which  she  should  be  the  central  figure.  But,  instead, 
she  found  a  still  more  distressful  topic  wagging  every 
tongue :  Hannan  was  explaining  the  country  house  he  in 
tended  to  build  for  Percy  Ferguson. 

"Wouldn't  that  be  a  bit  obvious?"  he  was  asking  Percy 
sharply,  using  his  most  overwhelming  tone  as  he  pulled  a 
long  upper  lip  and  glared  through  his  spectacles.  "The  idea 
is  to  conceal  it  from  the  road." 

"What  do  I  want  to  conceal  it  for?"  croaked  Ferguson. 
"I'm  building  a  house — not  a  siege  gun." 

"Let's  take  up  the  problem  as  we  have  it,"  persisted  Han- 
nan,  impatiently  seizing  a  fork  and  beginning  to  draw 
designs  on  the  tablecloth. 

Norma  could  have  screamed.  This  hateful  Hannan, 
feeding  unbidden  at  her  table,  was  using  her  best  cloth  as 
a  drawing  board  in  order  to  do  her  husband  out  of  a  five- 
hundred-thousand-dollar  job! 

"You  see — or,  don't  you  see? — that  on  such  a  rise  of 
ground  you  can't  build  a  driveway  to  face  the  road.  There 
fore  it's  got  to  face  the  other  way;  the  driveway  to  wind 
round — so."  He  sketched  with  the  tine  of  his  fork.  "The 
qualified  Tudor  house  I  am  planning  should  give  an  effect 
of  being  half  buried  in  the  landscape." 


42  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^  "•"•"""^ ^ ^^^^^•^•••i^j^at 

Nudds  was  just  brushing  by  with  plates  in  his  hand  and 
Norma  whispered  bitterly: 

"Tell  that  idiot  to  stop  marking  up  my  tablecloth!" 

"Yes,  madam,"  agreed  the  automaton,  with  no  intention 
of  obeying. 

"What  am  I  spending  half  a  million  for?"  Percy  was 
creaking  when  next  she  hearkened.  "To  chuck  it  in  a  hole 
and  cover  it  with  bushes  ?  I  want  a  house  that  means  some 
thing;  a  house  that  people  can  see  from  the  road  and  cuss 
at  if  they  feel  like  it.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  buried  under 
a  landscape.  There's  time  enough  for  that  after  I'm  dead." 

"Percival!"  soothed  Mrs.  Ferguson  just  in  time:  for 
Hannan  was  reddening  visibly. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  violate  my  artistic  conscience,"  said 
he,  sitting  back  and,  much  to  Norma's  relief,  laying  down 
his  fork. 

"Maybe  not.  If  everybody  felt  that  way  there  wouldn't 
be  any  business  done.  I'm  paying  for  a  house,  and  I  want 
the  house  I  want.  Suppose  I  ordered  a  carload  of  pig  iron 
and  they  sent  me  coke  instead  because  their  artistic  con 
sciences  wouldn't  stand  violating?  I'd  be  crazier  than  I 
am,  I  guess,  if  I  didn't  kick." 

The  ladies,  it  seemed,  had  been  buzzing  between  them 
selves,  and  their  words  became  audible  as  the  men  growled 
into  silence.  Norma  at  once  dreaded  and  hoped  that  they 
would  again  distress  her  with  the  truth  about  herself ;  but, 
instead,  they  were  delving  deliciously  in  the  scandals  of  the 
set  that  Mrs.  Hannan  knew  and  Mrs.  Ferguson  read  about. 

The  two  men  sulked  over  their  duck  and,  Norma  re 
marked  to  herself,  swilled  their  champagne;  they  were  dis 
gusting.  Norma's  feet  were  tired  and  her  eyes  were  aching 
for  the  tears  she  would  have  shed  had  she  dared.  She 
would  have  given  worlds  to  have  been  away  from  it  all, 
and  yet  she  would  not  have  missed  it  for  the  world !  Such 
is  the  curse  of  Eve — the  eavesdropper. 

Inwardly  she  was  entirely  crushed  with  the  outrageous 
things  this  party  had  come  here  to  tell  her.  Once  she 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  43 

resolved  to  escape,  to  dash  past  them  so  quickly  that  they 
would  think  her  an  apparition,  and  go  somewhere,  any 
where,  until  they  were  out  of  the  house ;  but  when  she  sur 
veyed  the  bright  glare  of  the  dining  room  and  the  great 
stretch  of  floor  she  would  have  to  cover  before  she  could 
gain  the  front  door,  she  gave  it  up  and  borrowed  a  chair 
from  the  haughty  Moselle. 

Presently  the  name  "Norma"  came  floating  again  to  her 
ears  and  she  resumed  her  post  at  the  crack. 

"I  gave  her  the  best  of  everything "  Marian  was  say 
ing,  and  Percy  was  interrupting: 

"Best  of  everything  when  you  were  through  with  it!  I 
bet  she  never  wore  anything  that  wasn't  secondhand  all  the 
years  I  knew  her.  She  put  up  a  pretty  spunky  fight,  if 
you  ask  me !  Trouble  with  Norma  was,  she  entered  the 
wrong  field  of  endeavour." 

"She  was  really  very  amusing,"  Mrs.  Ferguson  turned 
spitefully  to  the  lady  in  pink.  "The  best  company  in  the 
world,  and  so — adjustable.  She  was  a  bit  of  a  Becky 
Sharp,  though ;  never  quite  knew  her  place,  and  no  loyalty. 
I  wish,  for  my  own  sake,  that  she'd  stayed  single;  for  an 
attractive,  foot-loose  old  maid  without  any  money  is  one 
of  the  greatest  conveniences  in  the  world.  Now  that  she's 
married "  A  shrug  implied  her  complete  uselessness. 

Mrs.  Hannan  contributed  a  sympathetic  anecdote.  It 
seemed  that  she  had  had  an  invaluable  maid  who  had  mar 
ried  the  one  perfect  chauffeur,  and  so  spoiled  two  rare 
treasures.  The  transition  from  poor  Norma  to  the  maid 
seemed  quite  natural. 

Then,  after  a  pause,  Hannan  turned  the  limelight  again 
upon  himself.  He  spoke  lovingly  of  his  plans  for  a  tower 
ing  Hudson  water  gate;  of  his  converse  with  noble  minds 
on  the  subject  of  beautifying  America. 

As  if  in  mockery  of  it  all,  Norma  could  see  poor  Nat's 
roll  of  drawings  on  a  chair  by  the  wall  where  his  heedless- 
ness  had  dropped  them  before  he  fled  from  the  evening's 
horrors. 


44  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

She  turned  tearfully  to  the  task  of  helping  the  now 
humbled  Moselle  wash  a  change  of  silver  for  dessert. 

"Fine  folks,"  philosophised  the  coloured  duchess  in  the 
accents  of  her  mother,  "ain't  so  grand  when  you  look  at 
'em  out  uvva  kitchenette.  No,  ma'am !" 

Now  the  elaborate  paper  boxes  and  tins  in  which  com 
ponents  of  the  Peche  Reine  des  Fees  were  packed  must  be 
opened.  Amid  Moselle's  ecstatic  whispers  of  "Man! 
Ma-a-an !"  Nudds  was  taking  out  the  four  perfect  peaches, 
skinned,  pitted  and  stuffed  with  nuts.  Almost  reverently 
he  unpacked  the  precious  sauce  of  wild  strawberries  and 
poured  it  over  the  fruit  in  the  wide-mouthed  wine  glasses. 
Busily,  then,  he  puffed  his  way  into  the  dining  room  and 
was  back  in  a  moment  with  the  torn  fragments  of  that 
costly,  bloody  duck. 

"Pardon,  ma'am,"  announced  he,  pointing  his  crablike 
eyes  at  Norma,  "the  gentleman  says  'e's  filled." 

"Filled?"  echoed  she,  enviously  regarding  the  four  per 
fect  peaches. 

"  'E  says  'e's  'ad  sufficiently,  ma'am,  and  requires  'is 
coffee." 

"He  can't  have  it  now.  I've  paid  for  this  dessert  and  he's 
got  to  eat  it,"  announced  the  lady  of  the  house  decisively. 

"Very  good,  ma'am,"  replied  the  slave  to  duty;  and 
again  he  disappeared  into  the  dining  room. 

No  rebellious  clamour  arose  when  Nudds,  a  moment  later, 
bore  in  the  dessert.  Through  the  crack  in  the  screen  Norma 
could  see  him  pouring  over  the  peaches  their  funeral  liba 
tion  of  dry  champagne. 

"Indigestible  and  fussy!"  creaked  Ferguson;  and  he  fell 
to,  cleaning  his  plate  before  the  others  were  well  started. 
"What  d'you  all  say  we  go  to  the  Winter  Palace  ?"  he  next 
spoke  up.  "Nothing  in  town's  worth  seeing,  but  anything's 
better  than  sitting  round  glaring  at  each  other." 

There  came  a  compliant  chorus  and  Norma  enjoyed  her 
first  triumphant  thrill.  They  had  slandered  her  and  Nat; 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  45 

they  had  robbed  them  of  their  chance — but  those  abomin 
able  Fergusons  were  going  to  pay  for  the  dinner. 

Old  Percy  sat  roaring  for  coffee  and  cigars,  and  no 
sooner  were  the  box  of  salon  panetelas  opened  and  the  little 
cups  set  beside  the  plates  than  he  began  to  fidget  again  at 
Marian. 

"Get  your  things  on!    Get  your  things  on!"  he  nagged. 

The  ladies  rose  at  this  polite  request  and  went  into  the 
living  room.  The  sight,  to  Norma,  emblemed  freedom — • 
freedom  forever  from  those  thankless  tyrants  and  all  their 
kind.  Her  last  errand  was  run ;  her  last  concession  made. 
What  a  showing-up  this  had  been  of  herself  and  her  pre 
tended  friends !  She  would  take  her  Nat  and  sink  to 
poverty;  she  would  sew,  scrub,  chop  wood.  But  never 
again  would  she  seek  or  accept  favours. 

The  two  men  were  now  lolling  in  their  chairs — Norma's 
chair  and  Nat's — at  the  round  table.  Cocking  the  expensive 
cigars  at  various  angles,  they  regarded  one  another  quizzi 
cally  across  the  roses. 

"A  very  amusing  room  for  a  cheap  one,"  said  the  archi 
tect  at  last,  turning  his  eyes  from  Percy  to  the  panelling. 

"I  don't  see  anything  so  darned  comical  about  it,"  said 
the  old  man,  beginning  to  wheeze.  "You're  rather  easily 
amused,  Hannan." 

"Oh,"  said  Hannan  with  a  dusty  laugh,  "when  we  say 
amusing  we  mean  anything  cleverly  managed — out  of  the 
ordinary." 

"It's  like  calling  a  spade  an  implement."  Ferguson 
cocked  his  cigar  towards  his  left  eye  and  tendered  the  archi 
tect  a  bilious  glare.  "When  doctors,  householders  and  auto 
mobile  salesmen  get  to  doing  that,  you  may  be  sure  things 
are  beginning  to  run  up  into  money." 

"Do  you  know,  Ferguson,"  said  Hannan  after  a  pause, 
"I  got  a  great  deal  of  prestige  in  my  younger  days  through 
my  gift  for  saying  disagreeable  things.  The  habit's  grown 
on  me  with  success.  But  when  I  listen  to  you  I  find  myself 


46  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

so  splendidly  outmatched  that  I  want  to  retire  and  go  into 
a  monastery." 

Ferguson  rewarded  this  speech  with  a  dry  wheeze  and 
bit  a  little  deeper  into  his  cigar.  Hannan  rose  and  set  to 
fingering  Nat's  pretty  copies  of  old  French  flower  paintings. 
Ferguson  yawned ;  and  presently  he,  too,  shuffled  to  his  feet. 
His  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  elephantine  trousers,  he 
began  a  tour  of  the  room.  Presently  he  stopped  and 
Norma's  heart  stopped  with  him;  for  he  was  leaning  over 
the  chair  upon  which  Nat  had  dropped  his  plans  and 
sketches. 

"Hi-ho-hum !"  yawned  the  old  man,  like  an  overfed  ogre, 
and  casually  picked  up  the  scroll. 

Clumsily  he  unwrapped  the  outer  layer  and  permitted  a 
coil  of  blue  prints  to  fall  bouncingly  to  the  floor.  The 
tableau  was  enacted  right  in  front  of  Norma's  nose,  Han- 
nan  running  his  thumb  along  the  moulding  as  he  came  closer 
to  big  Ferguson,  who  was  holding  up  Nat's  water  colour 
and  squinting  sidewise. 

"Did  you  bring  this?"  he  asked  Hannan,  after  a  critical 
pause  in  which  the  architect  had  joined  him. 

"I'm  not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  samples  round  with 
me,"  replied  the  pert  little  man. 

"That's  a  darned  pretty  thing,  don't  you  think?" 

Hannan  perked  his  head,  tilted  his  cigar,  and  replied: 

"Amusing.     Banal.     Mixed  pickles.     Amusing!" 

"Found  another  laugh,  have  you?"  inquired  Percy  grat 
ingly. 

"Those  ornamental  tiles,  for  instance." 

"Darned  pretty !" 

"You've  expressed  it." 

Hannan  was  fingering  one  of  the  mechanical  drawings 
he  had  picked  up. 

"First  floor  plan.  All  out  of  balance.  Fellow  has  a  bad 
sense  of  proportion.  Amusing  stairway."  He  picked  up 
another  sheet:  "Second  floor.  Closets — my  word!  Fine 
idea  of  economy  here — ingenious  arrangement." 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  47 

"Hannan,"  croaked  old  Percy,  holding  the  water  colour 
against  the  wall  with  the  ends  of  his  fingers  while  he  stood 
away  as  far  as  his  frontal  development  would  permit, 
"that's  a  house !  A  proud  house.  The  front  door  isn't 
in  the  back  and  the  main  driveway  doesn't  look  like  a 
tradesman's  entrance.  Ostentatious  and  elegant.  It  ain't 
one  of  your  new  art  effects,  with  two  bricks  and  nine 
chimneys  showing  behind  a  grapevine." 

"It  is  all  you  say  of  it,"  concurred  Ambrose  Hannan. 

Ferguson  permitted  the  water  colour  to  roll  up  with  a 
papery  snap  as  he  dropped  it  on  the  chair  and  yawned  again. 

"Those  women  have  clinched  again,"  he  moaned,  peering 
into  the  drawing-room.  "Waiter!"  Mr.  Nudds  promptly 
presented  himself.  "Check!" 

A  sickening  faintness  swept  over  Norma  as  her  tempo 
rary  butler  held  forth  the  slip  from  her  horizon-blue  pad. 

"A  hundred  and  ten  dollars  and  sixty-five  cents!  What 
for?"  wheezed  the  genial  host.  "What  sort  of  a  badger 
game  are  you  running  on  me?" 

"Excuse  me,  sir.  The  dinner  was  specially  ordered,  sir," 
fluttered  Mr.  Nudds. 

"I  didn't  specially  order  it !"  Ferguson's  voice  was  roar 
ing  in  full  volume. 

"I  dare  say,  sir."  The  servant  retreated  out  of  striking 
distance. 

The  room  beyond  the  crack  swam  round  and  round  in 
Norma's  eyes. 

"I  didn't  make  any  lump  sum  bid  on  this  contract.  Go  to 
your  manager  and  get  me  an  itemized  bill." 

"Yes,  sir."     Nudds  staggered  toward  the  kitchen. 

"Aren't  you  ever  coming?"  Norma  could  hear  Mrs. 
Ferguson's  contralto  distantly  wailing. 

"Hannan,  I'm  not  going  to  be  robbed,"  old  Percy  was 
snarling.     "You  take  the  ladies  down  to  the  car  and  I 
stick  round  until  this  check  business  is  straightened  out." 

Hazily  the  spy  behind  the  screen  could  see  the  architect 
join  the  two  women  beyond.  In  the  attitude  of  a  bear 


48  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

p^^ ™ "^ """"^""^^^""T^^^rr*" "^ 

watching   a   rabbit   hole,    Ferguson    crouched    in   a    chair 
directly  in  front  of  the  kitchenette  door. 

Norma  snatched  the  blue  slip  from  the  hand  of  Nudds 
and,  all  a-tremble,  borrowed  a  stubby  pencil  from  Moselle. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  leaf  she  attempted  to  reconstruct 
that  elaborate  dinner,  purchase  by  purchase.  Never  in  the 
world  had  she  been  able  to  make  figures  balance.  Outside 
she  could  hear  the  waiting  fiend  snort  defiantly. 

The  figures,  which  this  afternoon  had  so  neatly  totalled 
a  hundred  and  ten,  insisted  on  adding  up  to  ninety-four,  and 
refused  to  go  beyond.  The  chair  outside  rattled  and 
creaked.  She  was  wild  with  fear  that  he  would  take  the 
whim  to  burst  through  the  screen. 

At  last  she  remembered.  She  hadn't  put  down  cigars  and 
dessert.  In  an  instant  she  had  jotted  the  figures  into  the 
column,  made  the  addition,  and  handed  the  check  to  Nudds. 

"Bunk!"  came  the  snarl  a  moment  later.  "We  smoked 
two  forty-cent  cigars.  Here  you  thieves  have  charged  me 
for  the  whole  box !" 

In  the  awful  pause  Norma  could  hear  the  feminine  voices 
fading  away.  The  front  door  slammed. 

"I'll  ask  the  lady,  sir." 

"I  thought  this  place  was  being  run  by  a  woman !"  snorted 
the  monster.  "Send  the  proprietor  to  me." 

Another  awful  pause.  Norma  turned  upon  the  kitchen 
ette  the  eyes  of  a  frightened  little  animal,  seeking  vainly 
for  a  hole  into  which  she  could  crawl.  Nudds  dodged  into 
her  presence,  accusingly  holding  up  the  scrap  of  paper. 

"  'E  says,  ma'am " 

"Make  him  go  away — tell  him  it's  all  right — he  can  pay 
whatever " 

A  panel  of  the  screen  was  drawn  harshly  aside  and  she 
found  herself  standing  exposed  to  the  purple-veined  nose, 
bilious  eyes  and  stubby  moustache  of  old  Percy  Ferguson. 
Somewhere  in  the  background  Moselle  tittered.  The  flat 
feet  of  Nudds  shuffled  nervously  in  the  constricted  space 
of  the  kitchenette. 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  49 

"For  the  love  of  barley !"  Ferguson  broke  the  silence  with 
a  tone  that  was  almost  prayerful. 

"I — I'm  sorry  about  the  mistake,"  Norma  found  herself 
echoing  away  off  somewhere. 

"Mistake!  Norma,  when  in  Sam  Hill  did  you  begin 
working  for  Tanquay?" 

An  inner  humour  told  her  how  crazy  she  must  have 
looked,  standing  in  that  culinary  box,  dressed  for  the  even 
ing,  a  butler  and  a  coloured  maid  hiding  behind  her  skirts. 
She  must  have  seemed  weak  and  pitiful,  too,  for  old  Percy's 
voice  suddenly  grew  paternal  as  he  said : 

"Come  out  of  the  oven,  Norma.     Let's  sit  down." 

She  followed  him  to  the  dining  room  and  collapsed  into 
a  chair. 

"Why  don't  you  make  that  British  marvel  give  you  some 
thing  to  eat?"  he  scolded,  eying  her  in  the  manner  of  kindly 
truculence  she  so  well  remembered.  "I'll  bet  you  haven't 
had  a  bite !" 

"I  haven't  had  time,"  she  quavered. 

"Norma!"  He  fixed  her  with  the  eye  of  a  bilious  ele 
phant.  "I  thought  I  had  been  up  against  every  game  there 
was." 

"I  didn't  intend  it  should  be  you,"  she  told  him  in  a  sud 
den  gust.  "I  wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars!" 

"You're  running  it  up  into  money,"  he  commented. 

"We'd  ordered  this  dinner  for  you.  And  when  you  said 
you  couldn't  come — well,  we  couldn't  afford  to  eat  it  our 
selves.  So  I  asked  Pierre  to  get  us  somebody.  It  was 
horrid !  It  wasn't  right  that  I  should  have  had  to  endure 
this!" 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  longed  to  scream  out  invectives 
against  them  all. 

"I  see.  You  blew  yourselves  to  the  limit— wanted  to 
get  us  here  and  sell  us  something— didn't  you,  Norma  ?" 

"You  and  Marian  needn't  trouble  yourselves  further  on 
that  score,"  she  assured  him  coolly. 


50  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

The  great  body  began  to  tremble,  jelly-like,  but  never  a 
sound  made  he. 

"Ain't  that  New  York  again  ?"  he  gurgled  at  last.  "This 
phony  old  town !  And  you're  in  the  game.  All  front  and 
no  back." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I've  been  looking  over  this  plant,  Norma.  When  you 
enter  by  the  front  door  you  think  you've  stepped  into  the 
best  throne  room  of  the  Czar  of  Europe.  Dining  room 
like  Dick  Canfield's  private  saloon.  Where  d'you  live? 
Where  d'you  cook?  Where  d'you  sleep?  There,  there, 
Norma.  Don't  get  mad !" 

She  clutched  the  sides  of  her  chair  and  could  have  dug 
her  nails  gleefully  into  that  pachydermous  hide. 

"I'm  a  disagreeable  old  codger,"  he  explained  contritely. 
"It's  a  habit — you  ought  to  discount  me.  You  must  be  put 
ting  up  an  awful  fight.  But  let  me  give  you  a  business  tip : 
If  your  husband  wants  to  build  me  a  house,  why  don't  he 
take  off  his  silk  stockings  and  wade 'in?  I've  got  an  office, 
and  so  has  he." 

"We  don't  want  to  build  you  a  house !"  she  stormed,  giv 
ing  way  to  shameful  rage.  "Not  for  every  dollar  that 
makes  you  and  your  wife  a  pair  of  town  bullies !" 

He  sat  up  straight,  his  ugly  old  face  grown  suddenly 
grave. 

"Norma,  you've  been  listening !"  he  said  at  last. 

She  only  turned  away  her  face,  enraged  that  the  tears 
should  be  flowing -so  childishly. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear,"  he  told  her  gruffly.  "It's  women's 
talk — rich  women's  talk.  You  can't  blame  'em  if  their 
claws  are  extra  sharp;  they're  so  expensively  manicured. 
And  I'll  bet  a  year  of  my  life  that  if  you  had  married  thirty 
million  and  had  been  sitting  at  that  table,  and  Marian  had 
been  down  and  out,  hiding  behind  a  screen " 

The  argument  seeming  to  make  no  dent  upon  her  grief, 
he  persisted  clumsily : 

"Believe  me,  I  wouldn't  have  had  that  happen — not  for 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK 


a  hundred  times  the  price  of  your  very  good  dinner.  I 
want  you  to  forgive  that  purse-proud  clatter.  I  always  had 
a  sneaking  admiration  for  you,  Norma,  because  you  were 
a  scrapper  to  the  last.  But  the  odds  were  against  you.  To 
gather  money  off  a  rich  woman  is  harder  than  skinning  an 
eel  with  a  wooden  spoon." 

This  statement  of  his  favourite  theory  gained  him  noth 
ing.  He  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"I  want  to  square  myself  for  this  rotten  break,"  he 
blurted.  "Hannan  hasn't  got  me  hypnotised  the  way  he's 
got  Marian.  Suppose  you  send  your  husband  round  to  me 
to-morrow  with  his  plans " 

"Will  you  please  go?"  She  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
ground  the  heel  of  her  slipper  into  the  rug.  "Don't  stay  a 
minute !  I  will  not  be  insulted  again  by  you  or  your  wife. 
We're  through  with  you — with  everything  and  everybody 
like  you.  There  isn't  anything  in  the  world  worth  what 
we'd  have  to  stand " 

She  heard  him  feebly  apologising;  this  old  tyrant,  who 
had  never  been  crossed  by  a  butler,  a  government  or  a  board 
of  directors,  stood  stuttering  like  a  schoolboy : 

"I — I  only  wanted  to  do  something.  At  least,  Norma, 
let's  keep  this  mess  to  ourselves.  There's  no  use — 

He  faded  into  the  big  room  and  left  her  panting  with  the 
invectives  she  yearned  to  hurl  at  his  head.  At  the  door 
she  could  see  him  doling  bills  into  Nudds'  willing  clutch. 

At  a  late  hour  the  servants  left,  having  restored  the  apart 
ment  to  its  customary  appearance  of  regal  order.  Norma 
had  slipped  on  her  kimono,  taken  down  her  hair,  and  pulled 
out  the  folding-bed  arrangement  of  the  Charles  II  settee. 

"All  front  and  no  back !"  Her  head  was  thumping  with 
the  repeated  phrase  as  she  lay  staring  at  the  one  pale  light 
in  the  antique  sconce. 

It  was  growing  late.  She  wanted  Nat  to  come  home  at 
once,  so  that  she  could  settle  with  him  candidly  the  humble, 
honest  basis  upon  which  they  were  to  pursue  their  lives 


52  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

hereafter.  All  front  and  no  back!  What  a  decorative 
sham  had  hidden  their  miserable  shoddiness !  Instead  of 
human  beings  living  in  homely  contact  with  a  real  world, 
they  had  been  window  displays.  And  now  the  window  was 
broken ;  its  contents  poured  out  into  the  unfriendly  street. 

And  yet  Norma  felt  relief.  They  could  scrape  together 
a  few  dollars  and  move  to  a  suburb  where  rents  were  cheap 
and  the  Social  Register  unknown ;  where  kitchens  were  wide 
and  bedrooms  plentiful ;  where  dogs  barked  and  children 
played  on  the  sidewalks. 

She  was  cruelly  glad  to  have  had  her  chance  with  old 
Ferguson.  To  have  refused  his  patronising  offer  was  in  the 
way  of  making  amends  for  her  parasitic,  sponging  years. 
She  and  Nat  should  be  honest  from  now  on ;  honest  and 
openly  poor.  .  .  .  She  thought  of  how  her  husband  with 
ered  under  the  frost  of  unsuccess.  Her  boy — her  weak 
boy — could  be  as  commanding  and  confident  as  Hannan 
himself,  once  given  a  chance. 

But  there  are  chances  one  must  not  take.  Swindlers, 
Marian  Ferguson  had  called  the  McKeens  as  she  sat  at  their 
table.  No  wonder  Percy  had  besought  her  to  keep  silent! 

Wouldn't  Nat  be  coming  home  pretty  soon  ?  She  thought 
of  telephoning  to  his  club,  but  merely  turned  on  her  hard 
pillow.  He  must  be  told  at  once;  told  that  their  lives  and 
their  programme  were  to  change  absolutely.  How  long  he 
stayed  away!  Bitterly  she  thought  of  him  anaesthetising 
away  the  pain  of  this  latest  failure  beside  a  tall  glass.  He 
would  probably  do  this  more  and  more  now — for  Nat  was 
of  the  kind  who  must  drug  themselves  into  the  illusion  of 
success. 

He  came  in  quietly  at  last,  just  as  she  had  dozed.  She 
didn't  dare  look  at  him  for  a  while;  and  when  she  turned 
her  head  she  found  him  standing  curiously  beside  her.  His 
hair  was  rumpled,  his  eyes  strangely  rolling,  and  the  hard 
front  of  his  evening  shirt  was  peeping  out  aggressively. 

"Norma,"  he  said  in  a  queerly  repressed  key,  "take  a  look 
at  your  husband !  The  mountain  has  walked  up  and  bought 


ALL  FRONT  AND  NO  BACK  53 

drinks  for  Mohammed.  He  took  me  to  his  club;  he 
drowned  me  with  favours ;  he " 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about?"  she  asked, 
alarmed  out  of  herself. 

"Ferguson !"  cried  he ;  but  his  cheeks  were  crimson  and, 
as  he  threw  out  his  arms,  he  gave  the  effect  of  a  man  about 
to  fly.  "I'm  not  drunk.  I'm  crazy — and  I  ought  to  be. 
He's  given  me  the  order  to  build  his  new  house !" 

Norma  raised  herself  on  her  elbow  and  uttered  not  a 
word. 

"He  hunted  me  up  at  the  Architects'  Club,  took  me  over 
to  the  Metropolitan,  and  literally  threw  his  house  at  my 
head.  Dumped  gold  nuggets  on  me  with  a  coal  scuttle.  He 
seems  to  know  all  about  the  plans  for  my  Vul — my 
Gregorian  Villa.  He's  as  eager  as  a  schoolboy.  Wants  me 
to  go  over  to  Long  Island  to-morrow  and  see  the  land.  And 
— my  word! — how  he  did  lace  it  to  Ambrose  Hannan!  I 
couldn't  have  thought  of  the  things  he  called  him 

Nat  went  burbling  on — the  full  wild  Arabian  Nights  story 
of  success.  He  seemed  to  have  grown  inches  taller,  and 
the  ring  of  boyish  enthusiasm  had  come  back,  sounding  like 
a  great  bell.  She  saw  the  miracle  before  her  eyes — a  shin 
ing  conqueror  had  stepped  forth  from  the  shrivelled  rag  of 
failure.  .  .  .  "Poor  Norma!"  The  spiteful  taunt  of  the 
woman  who  had  sat  at  her  table  and  called  her  a  swindler 
rang  in  her  ears. 

She  opened  her  lips  and  made  a  dry  sound ;  a  hard  task 
was  before  her.  Nat,  of  course,  must  be  told  and  made 
to  know  from  what  source  this  patronage  was  coming  to 
him.  But  he  was  rattling  heedlessly  on,  deducing  self- 
praise  from  his  triumphant  interview.  That  talk  with  Fer 
guson  had  given  him  new  life.  A  hundred  rosy  ideas 
seemed  to  blossom  out  of  the  patches  of  his  brain,  which 
had  lain  sterile  so  long.  He  was  delirious  with  new  projects 
and  ambitious  schemes. 

What  would  be  the  best  way  in  which  to  tell  him  now? 
How  could  she  be  humane  and  yet  warn  her  darling  man 


54  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

away  from  that  poisoned  success — the  money  that  was  to 
be  flung  at  them  like  an  insult?  The  money  that  was  put 
ting  fresh  blood  into  his  veins ! 

And  there  she  sat,  giving  forth  little  Oh's  at  regular  inter 
vals,  denoting  pleasure  and  wifely  sympathy.  The  set  smile 
she  wore,  frozen  on  her  face,  seemed  to  hearten  him  for  a 
while ;  but  presently  his  self -directed  paean  grew  fainter,  and 
he  said  in  a  voice  that  grew  suddenly  concerned : 

"Norma,  what  in  the  world's  the  matter?  Aren't  you 
happy  ?  Aren't  you  glad  ?" 

"Oh,  my  dear  boy !     I'm  so  happy  !     I'm  so  glad !" 

She  said  it  over  and  over,  struggling  to  force  warmth 
into  cold  words.  Then  she  gathered  him  maternally  into 
her  arms. 


II 

MONKEY  ON  A  STICK 


WHEN  Andy  Hanovan  came  home  that  afternoon, 
his  celebrated  wit  and  humour  quite  exhausted 
after  rehearsing  the  Mad  Masque  of  Mars  at  Mrs. 
Talcroft  Skeen's  palace  on  the  height,  he  walked  into  his 
pretty  front  door  and  found,  by  the  evidence,  that  his 
wife  was  about  to  leave  him.  He  had  known  for  some 
time  that  the  Hanovan  fortunes  were  taking  a  turn  to  the 
left,  that  Consie  knew  how  much  he  was  to  blame  and  was 
too  keen  to  browse  on  the  home-made  sophistries  by  which 
rich  wives  are  often  calmed ;  but  he  didn't  think  she  had 
it  in  her  heart  to  do  this.  Yet  there  stood  her  complicated 
luggage,  piled  like  a  barricade  against  him  in  the  hall ;  hat- 
boxes,  shoe-boxes,  despatch-boxes,  kit-bags,  hand-bags, 
steamer-trunks,  wardrobe  trunks,  distinctly  lettered  with 
the  initials  "C.  H."  Even  as  he  stood  there  staring  two 
elephantine  blacks  entered  and,  sans  apology,  began  re 
moving  the  paraphernalia  to  a  waiting  van. 

"Consie!"  he  called  in  an  afflicted  voice,  looking  up  the 
stairs;  and  in  that  keen,  nervous  face  of  his  there  was  no 
trace  of  the  comedy  which  had  caused  Belleville's  fashion 
able  roofs  to  rock  with  laughter  during  these  three  pleasant, 
vanity-stricken  years. 

He  made  a  headlong  charge  up  the  stairs,  driven  by  re 
morse  and  fear  and,  quite  naturally,  by  anger.  The  big 
bedroom  door  was  wide  open  at  the  first  landing.  Desola 
tion!  She  had  displayed  inherited  executive  ability,  no 
doubt  about  that,  for  the  twin  beds  were  stripped  to  the 

55 


56  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

mattresses,  the  bureaus  bare  to  the  mahogany  of  their  pol 
ished  tops.  Andy  gaped,  sank  down  on  one  of  the  deso 
lated  beds  and  was  trying  to  think  it  out  logically,  as  a 
retired  lawyer  should,  when  Consie  herself  appeared  be 
fore  him  and  stood  pulling  on  her  chamois  gloves.  Her 
trim,  small  figure  was  clad  in  a  sensible  costume,  suitable 
to  travel,  and  she  wore  a  veil  which  she  kept  wriggling 
away  with  contortions  of  her  pretty  mouth  as  she  fussed 
with  her  glove.  Had  Andy  been  ten  per  cent  better  lawyer 
or  loved  her  ten  per  cent  less,  he  would  have  forced  her 
to  the  disadvantage  of  a  first  shot.  Instead  he  cleared  his 
throat  at  last  and  grunted, 

"You're  not  really " 

"I've  telegraphed  to  Dad.  I'm  leaving  by  the  three 
twenty-six."  Her  eyes  showed  like  little  blue  slits  as  she 
stood,  looking  down  at  the  stubborn  buttons  of  her  glove. 

"But  what  in  the  world  is  it  all  about  ?"  asked  Belleville's 
champion  funny  man,  showing  a  face  from  which  all  the 
light  had  fled. 

"Andy!"  She  came  and  took  a  seat  beside  him  on  the 
striped  ticking.  She  opened  her  eyes  wide  upon  him  and 
surveyed  him  earnestly  while  the  tiny  crease  in  her  full 
under  lip  fluttered  with  the  things  she  had  to  say. 

"Andy,  it  isn't  because  I'm  a  quitter.  You  ought  to 
know  that.  But  you've  brought  things  round — or  let  them 
come  round  to  a  pass  where  something  disagreeable's  got 
to  be  done.  We  might  as  well  call  things  by  their  real 
names.  I  didn't  ask  you  to  support  me  when  we  were 
married,  but  I  think  I  had  a  right  to  expect  you  to  support 
yourself " 

"Please,  Consie,  please!"  He  passed  his  nervous  hand 
through  his  hair,  which  was  growing  a  little  thin  on  top. 
"I'm  broke,  but " 

"I'm  not  twitting  you,  my  dear,"  she  assured  him  with  a 
tantalising  gentleness  of  which  she  was  capable.  "But  as 
I  was  saying — we've  got  to  be  candid.  Maybe  I  have  a 
priggish  idea  of  self-respect.  I  can't  endure  the  thought 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  57 

of  my  father's  supporting  my  husband.  It's  all  right  for 
Dad  to  give  me  luxuries,  but  if  we've  a  home,  Andy  dear, 
you've  got  to  keep  it  up." 

She  gave  him  a  chance  to  reply  before  continuing  her 
quite  unusual  lecture.  "I  could  make  all  sorts  of  allow 
ances  for  your  going  broke.  I  could  say  that  you  weren't 
a  business  man,  that  you  had  a  dear  delightful  artistic 
temperament — which  you  have.  But  I  know  you  have  abil 
ity.  I  know  there  wasn't  a  young  lawyer  in  the  state  with 
more  promise  than  you  had  the  day  you  married  me." 

"Yes.  And  whose  fault  was  it  that  I  chucked  everything 
to  the  birds?"  he  bawled  savagely. 

"If  it  was  mine,  that's  all  the  more  reason  why  I  should 
let  you  alone  to  work  it  out." 

"You  were  there  with  applause  at  the  first  hit  I  ever 
made.  You  liked  it.  You  were  crazy  about  it.  It  was  the 
first  time  you  ever  looked  at  me.  You  were  glad  enough 
to  be  the  wife  of  a  great  big  popular  society  clown — 

He  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  eyes  like  a  whimpering 
schoolboy,  disregarding  the  maternal  glove  she  had  laid 
upon  his  shoulder.  When  next  he  looked  up,  she  had 
arisen  and  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"I  must  be  going  now,"  she  said  with  a  curious  inflec 
tion.  He  had  quarrelled  with  her  only  once  before,  and  he 
thought  by  her  look  that  she  was  going  to  yield. 

"You'll  get  over  being  mad.  You'll  come  back  pretty 
soon,"  he  ventured  by  way  of  peace  proposals.  She  shook 
her  head. 

"I  can't  come  back,"  she  said.    "I've  rented  the  house." 

"You've  what ?" 

"I  knew  it  would  be  too  big  for  you  to  use  alone.  Also,  it 
would  be  absurd — you  couldn't  afford  to  keep  it  up.  So 
the  Gastons  are  going  to  take  it  for  the  season.  They'll 
be  moving  in  Wednesday." 

"Consie,  have  you  gone  completely  off  your  hinge?"  he 
gasped  from  the  mattress  upon  which  he  had  collapsed. 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  for  you  to  go  live  with  your 


58  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

mother — while  you're  looking  round  for  something  to  do. 
It's  only  fair  that  you  should  give  her  all  you  can  give, 
now  that  you've  let  her  money  get  away.  I  think  you 
ought  to  look  round  for  something  to  do — something — oh, 
Andy !" 

The  peerless  local  comedian  had  hidden  his  face  in  his 
miserable  useless  hands;  and  it  gave  him  a  bitter  comfort 
to  feel  that  she  had  come  to  him  and  pressed  his  head  for 
a  moment  against  her  breast.  On  his  cheek  he  could  feel 
her  warm  breath,  fluttering  through  her  veil. 

"Andy,  if  you  try  you  can  come  back.  You've  had  some 
idle  silly  years.  They  were  wonderful  fun;  I  loved  them, 
too!  I'm  ashamed  to  say  that  it  took  this  money  crash  to 
make  me  realise  what  I  was  helping  you  to  throw  away. 
But  you've  still  got  the  stuff  in  you.  If  you  find  you  can 
support  your  mother  and  yourself— tell  me — tell  me " 

When  he  looked  up  she  was  gone.  He  heard  the  front 
door  swing  to.  Somewhere  outside  a  motor  gurgled  and 
chugged  away. 

So  this  was  the  dismal  curtain  to  the  three  years'  con 
tinuous  vaudeville  performance  to  which  Andy  Hanovan 
had  treated  an  exclusive  Belleville  audience.  A  few  of  the 
oldsters — some  of  those  who  had  known  Andy's  grand 
father,  the  late  illustrious  Chief  Justice  Warwick — had  said 
from  the  very  first  that  it  was  a  shame  that  one  of  An 
drew's  splendid  traditions  and  native  gifts  should  have 
been  lured  away  from  the  law  and  a  dignified  career  by 
the  frivolous  Consuela  and  by  "that  Mrs.  Skeen"  whose 
white  marble  palace  crowned  the  Hill  like  a  gigantic  wed 
ding  cake.  Belleville's  Dull  Set,  which  comprised  the  an 
cients  of  its  aristocracy,  saw  only  wrath  impending  for 
his  future.  In  the  language  of  golf  and  palmistry  his  line 
of  success,  swerving  from  the  true  course,  had  become 
bunkered  on  the  Mount  of  Venus.  But  you  would  have 
heard  no  melancholy  warning  from  the  Bright  Set  which, 
after  all,  ran  the  town  socially.  To  them  celebrity  of  the 
Andy  Hanovan  type  was  a  surpassing  achievement  which 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK 


59 


got  him  quoted  from  the  barroom  of  the  Commercial  House 
to  the  ballroom  of  Mrs.  Skeen's  overpowering  residence, 
where  it  became  the  fashion  to  brighten  his  occasional  ab 
sence  with  the  side-splitting  reply  to  "Have  you  heard 
Andy's  latest?" 

Whether  Andy  was  upstarting  or  downsliding  during 
these  years  was  a  matter  of  opinion,  all  depending  on 
where  the  spectator  stood  when  he  watched  the  perform 
ance. 

At  any  rate,  everybody  in  Belleville,  including  solid 
members  of  the  Western  Addition  who  didn't  approve  of 
Mrs.  Skeen's  parties  because  they  were  never  invited, 
agreed  that  St.  Valentine's  Day  marked  the  arrival  of 
Andy  as  a  municipal  asset. 

Belleville,  being  a  seat  of  ancient  Colonial  aristocracy, 
cherished  Mrs.  Hanovan  as  a  precious  relic  to  show  to 
visitors  and  prove  that  original  Belleville  did  actually  come 
over  in  the  Ark.  It  was  her  pride  to  live  in  a  small,  per 
fectly  rounded  circle,  to  visit  only  into  the  Six  Families, 
to  gossip  in  the  language  of  heraldry,  to  point  offended  nos 
trils  at  such  residents  of  the  Hill  as  had  "come  in"  dur 
ing  the  past  twenty  years,  introducing  a  vulgarity  acquired 
in  the  sale  of  bricks  and  cotton  goods. 

From  earliest  infancy  Andrew  had  been  reminded  that 
the  blood  of  Chief  Justice  Warwick  flowed  in  his  veins. 
He  could  not  distinctly  remember  his  grandfather,  but  there 
was  a  marble  bust  of  him  in  the  Hanovan  library  and  the 
little  boy,  often  secretly  studying  the  high,  marble  fore 
head,  prayed  to  be  made  worthy  of  that  stony  perfection. 
He  did  fairly  well  with  his  mother's  help;  for  even  in  the 
days  when  normal  boys  rode  "safety"  bicycles  and 
gambled  for  "cigarette  pictures"  by  the  process  known  as 
"flipping,"  the  brats  of  Belleville  called  him  "Stilts"  and, 
later  on,  "Chief  Justice."  From  the  cradle  he  was  marked 
for  a  lofty  pilgrimage,  to  follow  in  the  gigantic  footsteps 
of  his  grandsire. 

Nobody  played  with  Andy  very  much,  except  a  few  prim 


60  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

ladies  to  whom  the  Widow  Hanovan  took  him  on  stately 
visits.  At  nine  he  already  looked  like  the  Chief  Justice. 
A  majestic  thunder-cloud  bore  him  away  to  college  at  an 
early  age,  and  Mrs.  Hanovan  was  very  happy  to  know  that 
her  son  was  already  crystallising  into  the  magnificent  War 
wick  statue.  She  was  glad  to  feel  that  Andrew  was  not 
like  the  Hanovans,  who  were  frivolous  and  usually  died 
young.  Classmates,  returning  from  Harvard  for  a  sum 
mer's  flirtation,  reported  Andy  to  be  a  plugger  and  a  grind ; 
but  in  his  senior  year  Mrs.  Hanovan  was  distressed  by  the 
rumour  that  her  son  had  taken  the  part  of  a  Welsh  rabbit  at 
a  performance  of  the  Hasty  Pudding  Club.  For  this  she 
condemned  him  to  two  years  of  foreign  travel  under  her 
own  careful  chaperonage. 

He  was  said  to  have  graduated  "with  the  highest  honours" 
from  law  school.  Exactly  how  high  these  honours  were  no 
one  seemed  to  know.  No  barograph  could  have  recorded 
the  altitude  of  his  manner  when  he  strode  back  to  Belleville 
and  chose  for  his  partner  his  third  cousin,  Gaston  Cole — 
locally  known  as  "Coal  Gas" — who  had  already  been  in 
practice  two  years  and  demonstrated  a  solidity  which  his 
nickname  belied.  Cole  and  Hanovan  were  both  good  legal 
names  throughout  the  state.  Moreover  the  partners  were 
gluttons  for  work.  In  a  few  years  of  it  they  had  inched 
themselves  up  to  a  foothold  on  the  ladder — then  along  came 
St.  Valentine's  evening  to  lace  poor  Andy  round  and  round 
with  blood  red  ribbons. 

Nobody  could  have  blamed  Consie  Birch  for  her  share  in 
the  downfall.  It  wasn't  her  fault  that  she  was  human  and 
born  prettier  than  anything  allowable  in  the  criminal  code. 
Her  father  was  the  very  rich  contracting  engineer,  G.  W. 
Birch  of  Fairfield.  She  came  to  visit  Mrs.  Skeen;  and 
Andy,  from  his  height,  surveyed  her  as  the  hawk  surveys 
the  rose — or,  more  commonly  speaking,  the  chicken. 
Andy's  pomposity  and  rolling  style  of  speech  amused  her 
and  she  elected  at  once  to  call  him  "Stilts."  It  irritated  and 
charmed  him  curiously  to  be  called  "Stilts"  by  one  whom 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  61 

he  so  utterly  desired.  Therefore  he  had  made  himself 
ridiculous  in  pursuit,  had  proposed  to  her  almost  on  first 
acquaintance,  and  had  stood  glum  as  the  bust  of  the  late 
Chief  Justice  while  she  turkey-trotted  with  all  the  nimble 
patent-leathers  in  the  colony. 

By  St.  Valentine's  eve  Andy  had  had  about  enough  of 
this.  He  had  spent  a  week  of  self-torment,  pleading  his 
case  ponderously  before  the  bar  of  his  higher  nature.  He 
had  given  his  dancing  contemporaries  the  tribal  name  of 
Fluff.  He  wasn't  Fluff;  and  yet  this  girl,  who  seemed  to 
have  more  than  ordinary  common  sense,  persisted  in  mock 
ing  him  because  he  struck  attitudes  and  courted  her  in  the 
manner  of  Daniel  Webster.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  grew  dissatisfied  with  himself  and  the  stony  upland 
paths  which,  he  began  to  realise,  grew  no  daffodils.  His 
inferiors,  by  their  essential  inferiority,  were  outdoing  him 
at  the  game  which  he  was  breaking  his  heart  to  win. 

Those  were  in  the  days  before  Mrs.  Skeen  had  added 
the  great  ball-room  with  the  permanent  stage  to  her  archi 
tectural  wedding-cake  on  the  Hill.  So  the  St.  Valentine 
party  was  given  under  that  lady's  able  tyranny,  in  the  new 
Heatherways  Golf  Club,  which  Mrs.  Skeen  had  largely 
financed,  with  the  aid  of  Sam  Bethel,  the  millionaire  vaude 
ville  manager,  who  was  then  making  desperate  attempts — 
since  abandoned — to  pick  the  lock  of  Belleville  society. 

So  grudgingly  that  night  poor  Andy  had  draped  himself 
in  a  brown  domino  and  gone  forth  to  the  carnival  of  bleed 
ing  hearts.  Mrs.  Skeen  had  a  passion  for  fancy  dress,  and 
had  decreed  that  the  costumes  should  be  significant  of  ro 
mantic  love.  Bertie  Hall,  who  at  that  time  had  somewhat 
outworn  his  long-held  title  of  official  club  cut-up,  was  to  be 
a  very  comical  Cupid,  he  was  told,  and  Andy  groaned  to 
think  what  he  must  endure  for  love.  He  had  seen  his 
Consie's  favouring  looks  upon  the  capering  Mr.  Hall ;  so  that 
night,  as  he  came  into  the  noisy  clatter  and  noisier  colours  of 
the  St.  Valentine's  party,  the  future  Chief  Justice  was 
primed  to  break  every  law  upon  the  calendar.  The  first 


62  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

pretty  sight  to  offend  his  eye  upon  entering  was  that  of 
Consie's  teasing  smile  under  a  Marguerite  wig  as  she  sat 
in  a  corner  flirting  with  an  entirely  new  young  man. 

"And  what  do  you  represent?"  Mrs.  Skeen,  sweeping 
forward  in  her  proprietorial  way  and  surveying  Andy's 
monkish  gown,  had  inquired. 

"St.  Anthony,  trying  to  be  tempted,"  he  had  replied; 
and  this  was  the  first  joke  he  ever  made.  Which  shows 
from  what  a  small  nut  a  tall  tree  may  grow. 

Like  most  amateur  parties  Mrs.  Skeen's  Valentine  Rout 
was  mostly  preliminary.  It  was  generally  understood  that 
Bertie  was  dressing  somewhere  down  in  the  locker-room. 
Andy  stood  around  disconsolately  in  his  gabardine,  watch 
ing  Mrs.  Skeen  bustling  in  and  out,  tagging  volunteers  from 
the  audience,  disappearing  into  the  depths,  looking  more 
and  more  mysterious  as  the  minutes  dragged  along  into 
hours.  Everybody  upstairs  seemed  perfectly  content,  with 
the  exception  of  Andy,  who  stood  footsore  inside  his  hide 
ous  habit,  casting  baleful  eyes  upon  Romeos  and  Juliets, 
Tristans  and  Isoldes,  Jacks  and  Jills.  From  Consie  Birch 
he  kept  his  gaze,  because  he  had  about  made  up  his  mind 
to  have  no  more  of  her.  She  was  light. 

When  the  hand  of  the  clock  had  passed  round  the  dial 
again  and  it  was  wearing  toward  ten,  Andy  had  a  mind  to 
go  home ;  but  Fate,  who  was  there  in  no  disguise  whatever, 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  tempted  the  dour  St. 
Anthony  to  go  down  into  the  locker  room  and  see  what  the 
foolish  delay  was  all  about. 

In  the  confined,  soapy,  cigarette-smelling  room  he  found 
the  reason  soon  enough.  A  half-dozen  of  the  tallest  men 
in  the  club  stood  around  in  kittenish  Grecian  costumes 
cursing  miserably  over  a  helpless  figure,  stretched  at  length 
on  a  cot.  Here  lay  the  collapsed  Bertie,  mumbling  "All 
right  in  a  minute,"  while  Mrs.  Skeen,  hovering  as  near  as 
the  limits  of  modesty  would  permit,  exhorted  and  chafed 
the  rings  on  her  costly  fingers. 

"On  me?     I'd  split  'em!"  Big  Bill  Hubbard,  the  next 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  63 

best  comedian  in  Belleville,  was  saying  dazedly  as  he  held 
up  a  suit  of  pink  silk  tights.  Upstairs  the  notes  of  the 
phonograph  proclaimed  mockingly  that  the  youngsters  had 
tired  of  the  delay  and  were  going  to  dance. 

"I  told  Bertie  he  couldn't  rehearse  on  cocktails  and  an 
empty  stomach,"  sounded  another  watcher,  whereupon 
Andy,  grumbling  that  the  party  would  get  along  pretty 
well  without  any  show,  had  turned  on  his  heel.  Mrs. 
Skeen,  a  jewelled  figure  of  dismay,  had  intercepted  him  in 
the  corridor. 

"Help  me!"  she  had  pleaded.  "You're  the  only  man 
here  who  can  wear  them.  There's  a  bag  of  valentines — • 
Bertie  and  I  worked  a  whole  week  with  the  rhymes — you're 
a  lawyer — and  I'm  sure  you'll  have  no  trouble  making  up 
speeches " 

"I'll  try  them  on,"  Andy  had  agreed,  referring  to  the 
tights.  For  there  had  come  to  the  young  lawyer  a  perverse 
desire  to  show  the  flirtatious  little  Marguerite  upstairs  that 
he  was  not  always  stalking  on  his  lofty  stilts.  At  Mrs. 
Skeen's  command  he  went  obediently  into  the  locker-room 
and  fell  among  strong  hands.  There  followed  a  dreadful 
pulling  on,  daubing  of  grease-paint,  pinning  of  false  wings. 
Those  preposterous  garments  clung  to  his  supple  figure,  re 
vealing  the  fact  that  he  was  a  trifle  bow-legged ;  and  those 
limbs  needed  but  revealment  to  insure  their  success.  They 
were  comedy  legs.  Big  Bill,  being  one  of  little  faith, 
looked  sorrowfully  down  as  they  fitted  a  golden  wig  on 
Andy's  skull,  incarnadined  his  nose,  tried  out  his  wings, 
which  were  expected  to  buzz  annoyingly  at  the  pull  of  a 
string. 

"Don't  weaken!"  Big  Bill,  evidently  expecting  a  dreary 
spectacle,  had  whispered  in  his  ear  just  before  the  chorus 
of  six-foot  flower-bearers  had  stamped  into  the  assembly- 
room,  strewing  cabbage  roses  and  shouting  an  hilarious 
song.  Thus  Andy  staggered  forward,  bearing  in  the  one 
hand  a  mail  pouch,  in  the  other  a  ridiculous  Cupid's  bow. 

The  serious-minded  young  attorney  was  thinking  hard 


64  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

as  he  advanced.  There  was  laughter  on  all  sides,  and  from 
her  corner  he  could  see  the  admiring  smile  of  Consuela,  who 
evidently  took  him  for  the  talented  Bertie  Hall.  Andy  was 
trained  to  brazening  courts  and  juries,  so  shyness  was  not 
his  fault.  Also  her  look  stung  him  to  an  acrobatic  madness. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  he  had  borrowed  another  body  for  the 
evening  and  was  free  to  do  what  he  pleased  with  it.  There 
fore  he  brought  his  comedy  legs  into  play,  cut  several  auda 
cious  didoes  and  was  intoxicated  by  the  storm  of  encourage 
ment  which  rewarded  his  pains.  He  was  accustomed  to 
giving  juries  what  they  wanted,  and  here  was  a  jury  which 
required  him  to  make  an  ass  of  himself,  or  be  thrown  out 
of  court. 

How  he  succeeded  is  history  now  in  the  Heatherway 
Club.  He  capered  down  the  aisle  of  Grecian  youths  under 
a  shower  of  roses.  The  orchestra  banged  out  a  jungle  air 
and  Andy,  in  the  madness  of  Thespis,  reverted  to  the 
Welsh  rabbit  dance  of  college  days.  His  ridiculous  dis 
guise  acted,  for  him,  as  a  rosy  barricade  behind  which  he 
performed  all  the  antics  of  the  zoo.  And  Belleville  went 
wild  over  Andy. 

After  that  he  had  but  to  open  his  mouth  to  start  an 
echoing  clatter.  He  hadn't  yet  learned  the  repressed  style, 
so  he  introduced  the  subject  of  Valentines  by  taking  a 
header  over  the  mail-bag.  Envelopes  scattered  across  the 
floor  and  the  comedian,  picking  them  up  with  coos  of 
clownish  tenderness,  improvised  doggerel  as  he  doled  them 
out  one  at  a  time.  The  archives  of  the  Club  still  record 
his  address  upon  that  occasion  to  Mr.  Arthur  McAfee, 
Belleville's  justly  celebrated  young  miser: 

"Art,  Art, 
Here's  my  heart — 

You'll  keep  it  safe,  I  know. 
It  cost  a  dime — 
'Twould  be  a  crime 

For  you  to  let  it  go." 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  65 

When,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  performance,  Andy — part 
ly  by  mistake — shot  himself  through  the  wig  with  a  comedy 
arrow,  died  acrobatically  all  over  the  floor  and  permitted 
the  Grecian  youths  to  drag  him  out  by  the  heels,  Belleville 
was  howling  for  more.  Even  in  the  racketing  salvo  he 
could  hear  shrill  voices  inquiring,  "Who  is  he?"  And  then 
he  knew  he  had  accomplished  something.  Just  what  he 
wasn't  sure  until  later. 

From  that  moment  on  it  was  as  if  the  grease-paint  had 
struck  in  and  permanently  dyed  his  personality.  Down  in 
the  locker-room  he  gloried  in  the  sensation  of  warm  hands 
slapping  his  back  and  cordial  voices  assuring  him  that  he 
was  the  best  ever.  The  hard  legal  shell  seemed  to  be  melt 
ing  away  from  him.  And  when  at  last  he  got  upstairs 
properly  garbed  as  St.  Anthony,  it  was  with  all  the  com 
placency  of  a  star  that  he  permitted  Belleville  to  proclaim 
him.  He  carried  a  magic  charm  in  his  pocket  by  which  he 
could  gain  the  admiration  of  all  men  and  women.  And, 
being  a  woman,  Consie  Birch  rewarded  his  apish  behaviour 
by  looking  at  him  seriously  for  the  first  time  that  evening. 

Well,  it  was  the  history  of  a  nut  in  a  nut-shell.  Consie 
Birch  got  hold  of  him  and  Mrs.  Skeen  got  hold  of  him. 
He  married  Consie  and  attached  himself  to  Mrs.  Skeen  as 
her  ever-ready  entertainer ;  for  the  mistress  of  the  wedding- 
cake  house  accepted  only  the  best  and  Andy  became  that  in 
a  marvellously  short  time.  The  antediluvian  Mrs.  Hanovan 
might  fume  a  bit  and  chide  her  son  for  his  neglect  of  the 
law — but  it  was  very  evident  that  Andy's  popularity  as  an 
amateur  comedian  gave  the  young  married  couple  a  central 
position  in  local  society.  He  had  to  be  at  every  dinner 
party  with  a  funny  story ;  he  developed  unexpected  talent  as 
a  stage  manager  and  designer  of  costume  affairs.  In  less 
than  no  time  he  had  changed  his  pose,  dropping  the  sub 
lime  manner  in  favour  of  the  ridiculous. 

Meanwhile  Gaston  Cole's  broad  face,  which  was  square 
and  dingy  like  an  Indian's,  grew  more  and  more  forbidding. 
It  was  evident  that  he  didn't  fancy  Andy's  entertaining 


66  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

fellows  from  the  Club  during  office  hours.  Dolefully  he 
kept  tab  on  the  Hanovan  jokes  and  resented  his  partner's 
trying  them  out  on  juries.  Andy  saw  it  coming  and  didn't 
care  when  Cole  used  their  failure  in  the  case  of  the  Clement 
heirs  versus  the  Dreadnaught  Trust  Company  as  an  excuse 
for  a  peppery  dialogue. 

"Law  is  a  serious  business,"  Gaston  had  said,  showing 
his  wide-spaced  teeth.  "And  the  next  thing  you  know 
we'll  be  laughed  out  of  court." 

Trying  his  new  facetious  vein  even  there,  Andy  had  re 
sponded  that  there  was  nothing  he  knew  of  quite  so  funny 
as  most  of  the  courts  he  frequented.  And,  of  course,  that 
was  the  end.  Andy  had  moved  his  share  of  the  office  furni 
ture  to  another  building,  had  displayed  his  name  on  the 
door  for  a  few  months,  then  closed  up  shop  without  a  pang 
because  the  Hill  was  calling  loudly  for  his  talents  and  the 
business  districts  of  Belleville  didn't  seem  to  care  much 
whether  he  came  or  went.  He  had  invented  a  new  anecdote 
about  a  lame  chicken  and  a  coloured  burglar  at  this  crisis  of 
his  career.  He  was  being  quoted  everywhere  and  Mrs. 
Skeen's  parties  were  gaining  notice  in  the  metropolitan 
press.  Consie,  complacent  in  the  knowledge  that  the  Hano 
van  money  would  pay  his  expenses,  warmed  herself  in  the 
reflection  of  her  husband's  false  fires.  Only  the  Widow 
Hanovan,  who  paid  his  bills,  sighed  occasionally  and  in 
quired  in  her  stilted  way: 

"Andrew,  when  will  you  be  resuming  the  practice  of  the 
law?" 

So  here  it  ended  in  the  third  year,  Andy  sitting  dejected 
and  alone  on  the  bare  connubial  mattress.  Consie  was 
right  of  course.  She  had  shoved  him  out  of  the  boat; 
then,  seeing  him  in  the  water,  had  stretched  out  an  oar  for 
him.  Was  she  offering  him  that  oar  as  a  saving  buoy  ?  Or 
did  she  intend  to  hit  him  over  the  head  with  it?  How 
could  Andy  tell,  since  he  was  dealing  with  a  woman,  and 
his  wife  at  that  ? 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  67 


II 

He  decided  to  resume  at  once  the  serious  thread  of  his 
life,  so  he  changed  his  necktie  to  one  befitting  the  solemn 
nature  of  his  quest  and  started  down  the  Hill  toward  the 
flat  below,  where,  distantly  toward  the  declining  sun,  tall 
chimneys  plumed  the  sky  and,  more  intimately,  Belleville's 
vulgar  thoroughfares  rattled  with  motor-trucks,  flaunted 
their  five-and-ten-cent  stores,  brazenly  displayed  their  ad 
vertisements  for  moving  picture  theatres.  Belleville  was 
booming;  and  Andy  knew  that  Gaston  Cole,  lumbering  al 
ways  ahead  like  a  clumsy,  invincible  force,  had  carried  on 
his  law  practice  from  the  point  where  Andy  had  deserted 
it. 

Toward  the  foot  of  the  Hill  he  saw  the  white  pillars  of 
his  mother's  house  showing  through  the  autumnal  elms. 
He  turned  in  at  the  gate  and  knocked  at  the  big  door  with 
the  elaborate  fan  light  above.  The  servant  told  him  that 
his  mother  would  see  him  in  the  library,  and  he  was  sorry 
for  that,  because  he  knew  where  she  would  be  sitting  and 
how  she  would  meet  him. 

She  sat  with  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  directly  in  front 
of  the  marble  bust  of  the  late  Chief  Justice  Warwick.  She 
was  a  small  woman,  a  feminine  version  of  the  Warwick 
invincibility.  Her  features  were  as  aquiline  as  those  of 
the  marbled  Justice  on  the  pedestal  and  her  iron-grey  hair 
was  frizzed  primly  in  an  antiquated  style.  Preposterously 
laced  in  at  the  waist-line,  her  figure  was  quaint  with  the 
girlishness  of  a  past  decade.  In  her  ears  she  wore  long 
pendants  of  carved  onyx,  set  with  pearls. 

"Well,  Mother,"  he  began,  choosing  the  lightest  of  his 
intonations  as  he  took  a  chair  as  far  as  possible  out  of  line 
with  the  frowning  bust  of  his  ancestor,  "life  is  real  and 
life  is  earnest,  this  afternoon." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  worry  too  much,  my  dear,"  she  told 
him,  real  tenderness  for  the  moment  softening  her  fierce 


68  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


black  eyes.  "I've  gone  over  everything,  and  I  find  there 
is  enough  coming  in  from  the  Falls  Farm  property  to  keep 
us,  if  we  manage  very  carefully.  Of  course,  I  shall  have 
to  curtail  your  allowance " 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  said  Andy  huskily.  "That's 
all  on  the  junk  pile  now." 

"I  don't  understand  you."  Not  to  understand  modern 
slang  was  a  part  of  her  religion. 

"I  mean,"  he  resumed,  after  clearing  his  throat,  "that 
I'm  going  to  take  a  new  hitch  in  my  belt.  I've  decided  to 
stop  all  this  nonsense  up  on  the  Hill.  I'm  going  to  work." 

"Andrew,  I'm  so  glad!" 

Of  course  that  was  what  she  was  expected  to  say.  But 
there  were  a  million  prejudices  and  reservations  in  the  look 
she  gave  him. 

"What  does — Consuela  say  to  all  this?"  She  always 
spoke  of  Consie  in  this  way,  as  though  hesitating  to  admit 
her  into  the  sacred  house  of  Warwick. 

"She  insisted  on  my  supporting  myself.  In  fact,  Mother, 
she's  left  me." 

"She  what?" 

"Packed  up  and  gone  back  to  her  father  until  I  can  make 
enough  to  support  myself." 

"Since  when  have  the  Fairfield  Birches  begun  telling  the 
Warwicks  what  they  should  do?" 

This  remark  was  quite  characteristic.  She  had  all  the 
people  in  the  county  card-indexed  in  her  keen  little  mind, 
and  at  will  she  could  take  them  out  and  condemn  them  by 
families. 

"I  think  under  the  circumstances  she  was  perfectly  right," 
persisted  he.  "I've  been  leading  a  pretty  useless  life  these 
two  or  three  years.  It's  time  I  bucked  up — and  it's  not  fair 
to  ask  Consie  to  support  me." 

"It's  a  great  joy  to  me  to  hear  you  say  that,  my  dear," 
said  Mrs.  Hanovan,  sitting  straight  as  a  ramrod.  "You've 
been  wasting  your  great  talents  on  Nobodies."  She  shook 
her  proud  little  chin  toward  the  circle  of  the  Hill.  "And 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  69 

I  think  it  high  time  you  got  back  to  your  serious  work — 
your  grandfather's  work." 

Vainly  Andy  strove  to  avert  his  gaze  from  the  marble 
eyeballs  of  the  Chief  Justice,  but  the  effigy  of  that  old  mar 
tinet  was  frowning  down  on  him  with  his  beetling  brows. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  the  law,"  he  told  her  at  last, 
shamefacedly. 

"What  in  the  world  do  you  mean?"  It  was  as  though 
the  Chief  Justice  and  his  daughter  had  volleyed  it  together 
at  him,  a  marble  chorus. 

"I  know  there's  a  lot  of  family  pride  to  be  swallowed  and 
all  that  sort  of  tosh — but  in  a  corner  you've  got  to  take 
what's  to  be  had." 

"And  what's  to  be  had  ?"  she  echoed  sarcastically. 

"Well,  if  we  swallow  a  few  old-fashioned  prejudices  I 
know  where  I  can  go  to  work  to-morrow  or  next  day  at  a 
salary  of  two  or  three  hundred  a  week." 

"You  mean  you  could  go  into  a  business  ?" 

"No.    I  was  thinking  of  the  stage." 

The  suggestion  didn't  produce  the  shock  he  had  expected, 
for  she  sat  stiffly  a  moment,  considering. 

"Some  gentlemen  have  adopted  that  profession,"  she 
admitted  grudgingly,  "there  was  the  late  Richard  Mans 
field." 

"I'm  not  a  Mansfield,"  he  took  her  up  rather  tartly. 
"The  only  place  where  I  could  make  money  would  be  musi 
cal  comedy  or  vaudeville." 

"Vaudeville !"    She  uttered  it  like  a  cry  of  pain. 

"As  I've  said,"  he  temporised,  "I  can't  go  back  and  pick 
up  my  practice  where  I  left  it,  and  I've  got  to  make  money 
quick.  They  tell  me  I'm  the  best  amateur  comedian  in  the 
State — heaven  knows  I've  had  practice  enough  at  that.  It's 
a  matter  of  capitalising  my  talents.  I'd  be  a  fool  if  I 
didn't." 

"You  mean  you'd  appear  for  money  with  your  face 
painted  like  a  clown?" 


70  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

r"*^  *^ ^™ "^ "^ 

"I've  done  it  for  glory  a  long  time,"  he  admitted  quite 
without  bitterness. 

"Aping  before  an  audience  of  common  women  and  trades 
people — a  grandson  of  Chief  Justice  Warwick?" 

The  worshipful  graven  image  was  staring  down  on  him 
and  the  sight  of  it  drove  Andy  to  a  passion  of  candour. 

"He's  been  planted  in  his  grave  for  thirty  years.  Ex 
cuse  me,  Mother — we  can't  live  on  tombstones.  If  the 
Chief  Justice  can  rise  up  and  find  me  a  job,  good.  Other 
wise " 

"Andrew !"  She  raised  a  skinny  arm  as  if  to  smite  him 
for  his  blasphemy. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mother."  Tears  rimmed  his  eyes  as  he  came 
over  and  gathered  her  slender  little  body  into  his  arms. 
She  looked  fearfully  ill  and  his  conscience  tortured  him 
with  pictures  of  his  wasted,  unworthy  years. 

"My  boy!  My  boy!"  She  was  clinging  to  him  and 
sobbing  as  he  didn't  know  this  rock-ribbed  woman  could 
sob.  "You  were  so  much  to  me.  You  were  so  splendid. 
Why  can't  you  ever  be  the  same  again  ?  You  mustn't — you 
mustn't " 

"There,  there.  I  won't!"  He  could  see  now  how  hard 
the  strain  had  been  on  her.  He  stood  there  inanely  patting 
her  shoulder,  struggling  against  an  impulse  to  blubber  out 
his  grief  and  disappointment  in  himself. 

"Go  back  to  the  law,  my  boy !  Be  something  in  the  world 
— promise  me." 

"Yes,  yes,  Mother.  I  will.  I'll  go  round  and  see  Gaston 
right  away." 

"Because,  if  you  should  do  anything — beneath  our  dig 
nity — what  would  your  grandfather  say?" 

She  cast  adoring  eyes  up  to  that  inexorable  portrait. 
And  that  was  too  much  for  Andy,  who  had  grown  to  hate 
the  disagreeable  image  of  unearthly  purity. 

He  kept  telling  himself  as  he  walked  through  the  rattling 
streets  of  Belleville  that  it  would  be  natural  enough  for 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  71 

Cole  to  take  him  back  into  the  firm.  Andy  had  been  the 
backbone  of  the  firm  in  the  old  days  and  Gaston,  who  was 
something  of  a  social  bull,  would  have  sufficient  common 
sense  to  see  the  advantages  of  wealthy  contact  which 
Andy's  wastrel  years  had  brought  him. 

He  found  the  names  of  Cole,  Phipps  and  Brenning  em 
blazoned  smartly  on  the  ninth  floor  of  the  new  Ajax  Insur 
ance  Building.  Gaston  had  taken  unto  himself  two  keen, 
busy  little  partners,  both  his  seniors;  and  upon  entering 
Andy  sensed  the  jealous  pang  of  the  discarded  favourite 
who  revisits  the  harem  and  finds  it  remodelled  and  re 
stocked. 

The  new  offices  were  splendidly  labyrinthine.  A  thin- 
wristed  secretary  took  his  card  and  permitted  him  a  seat 
in  the  outside  waiting  room.  Mr.  Cole  would  be  able  to 
see  his  visitor  in  due  time. 

There  were  vistaed  glimpses  of  solid  success  to  be 
caught  rapidly  as  mahogany  doors  opened  and  revealed 
shining  book-cases,  deep-piled  rugs  and — this  was  almost 
too  much — dignified  plaster  of  Paris  busts  on  high  shelves. 
Typewriters  clicked,  clerks  tiptoed,  buzzers  buzzed.  Andy's 
dramatic  instinct  assured  him  that  Gaston's  prosperity  was 
well  stage-managed.  Presently  the  secretary  came  out 
again  and  informed  him  in  a  velvety  voice  that  the  great 
man  was  at  leisure.  A  polished  door  swung  upon  an  ex 
pensive  rug  and  Andy  followed  in. 

He  could  hear  Gaston's  voice  before  he  saw  him;  that 
big,  monotonous  voice,  which  always  seemed  to  imply,  "I 
may  bore  you,  but  you'll  find  I've  worked  it  all  out,"  went 
droning  on  in  dictation. 

"Whereas  the  party  of  the  first  part,  having  agreed  under 
Section  Two,  Paragraph  Three  of  said  contract " 

"Behold  the  prodigal's  return!"  grinned  Andy,  stepping 
up  and  holding  out  his  hand. 

"Well,  well !  And  what  can  we  do  for  the  prod  ?  Sit 
down.  Have  a  smoke." 

Andy's  hand  was  held  in  a  powerful  palm  as  his  former 


72  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

•*^^^^ ™ "* "l"~-'''"<1^— "—*-••••"-•— ^^^-••—•^•^^••••^^^•••^ 

partner  offered  a  roll  of  bilious  cigars.  Cole  was  an  enor 
mous  man  with  bovine  eyes,  a  shapeless  mouth  and  wide-set 
teeth.  His  head  was  quite  hairless  and  shiny  with  a  mole 
near  the  top.  He  had  been  bald-headed  ever  since  Andy 
had  known  him.  "He  has  a  bald-headed  mind,"  was  the 
unworthy  thought  which  amused  the  caller  as  he  took  a  seat 
and  a  cigar  almost  simultaneously. 

"You've  spread  out  quite  a  bit,  as  the  old  lady  said  when 
the  trolley  ran  over  her  dog,"  began  Andy,  indicating  the 
expansive  environment.  This  was,  of  course,  no  way  to 
begin. 

"Our  practice  is  increasing,"  his  cousin  made  the  un 
responsive  response. 

"Cole,  Phipps  and  Brenning!"  mocked  the  visitor. 
"You're  lengthening  like  a  train  of  freight  cars.  If  you'd 
only  tag  the  name  Hanovan  on,  now,  for  a  caboose " 

"Nothing's  sacred  with  you,"  grinned  the  lawyer,  show 
ing  his  best  poker  face.  "Have  you  seen  my  latest  ?" 

Off  the  desk  he  plucked  an  oval  photograph  in  a  silver 
frame.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  very  ugly  baby,  quite  as  bald 
and  unmagnetic  as  his  father. 

"A  peach !"  cried  the  hypocrite. 

"The  remark  is  irrelevant  and  immaterial.  Also  you're 
a  liar."  Gaston  Cole  put  the  photograph  beside  a  solitaire 
rose  on  the  desk.  "He's  named  after  his  father  and  he'll 
never  be  shot  for  his  beauty.  But  I'll  turn  him  into  a  Su 
preme  Court  Justice  before  I  quit." 

"Have  a  heart!"  groaned  Andy  quite  sincerely;  for  the 
first  time  he  noticed  a  chalky  bust  of  Demosthenes  staring 
down  at  him  from  a  shelf.  He  turned  away  with  a  feeling 
of  nausea.  Also  he  was  considering  the  question  of  just 
how  and  where  to  begin  with  a  proposition  which  the  able 
Cole  was  too  apparently  trying  to  avoid  by  a  show  of  af 
fability;  Andy  had  moistened  his  lips  for  an  attempt  when 
the  telephone  rang. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Bethel."  Gaston  Cole,  swarthy  and  expres 
sionless  as  an  Aztec,  sat  listening  to  the  sharp  syllables  com- 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  73 

ing  out  of  space.  "No.  It  was  quite  impossible  to  avoid 
the  delay.  Yes.  It  will  be  tried  before  Judge  Foster  in 
that  case.  Can't  we  meet  for  another  conference  to-mor 
row,  say,  at  three  ?  Thank  you.  Good-bye." 

"Sam  Bethel!"  announced  Gaston,  sighing  deeply  as  he 
named  the  eccentric  magnate  who,  having  established  an 
endless  chain  of  theatres  in  a  dozen  states,  had  elected  the 
Western  Addition  for  the  site  of  his  architectural  excres 
cences.  "He's  got  the  lawsuit  habit  incurably." 

"Should  a  lawyer  grieve  for  that?"  was  Andy's  quite 
natural  question. 

"He  never  brought  a  serious  suit  in  his  life.  All  that 
Bethel  can  see  in  the  law  is  a  good  advertising  medium.  He 
has  the  reputation  of  spending  fifty  thousand  dollars  a  year 
on  eccentric  cases  and  doubling  his  money  in  free  news 
paper  publicity.  That's  all  right.  He's  got  plenty  of  money 
and  it's  as  good  as  anybody's,  I  suppose.  But  there  comes 
a  limit." 

"Just  where?"  asked  Andy,  who  was  thinking  over  his 
own  troubled  fortunes. 

"Well,  you  see,  we're  representing  some  of  the  most  dig 
nified  business  enterprises  of  the  State.  And  along  comes 
Bethel  asking  us  to  bring  suit  for  a  hundred  thousand  dol 
lars  to  protect  the  fair  name  of  a  pair  of  performing  chim 
panzees." 

"Breach  of  promise  ?"  The  prospect  tickled  the  ex-come 
dian's  imagination. 

"It's  undignified!"  growled  Cole,  as  he  sat  biliously  tap 
ping  the  point  of  a  red-nosed  pencil  on  his  blotter. 

There  came  a  pause.  Cole  was,  apparently,  trying  to 
tire  him  out,  so  Andy  decided  on  a  plunge : 

"Speaking  of  dignity,"  said  he,  "I'm  thinking  of  going 
back  into  the  law." 

"Congratulations !"  responded  Cole,  looking  straight 
through  him  with  his  bovine  stare. 

"I'm  speaking  quite  seriously."  Andy  set  his  jaw  and 
returned  look  for  look. 


74  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"I'd  rather  be  a  partner." 

"Andy,  do  you  realise,"  began  Cole,  keying  his  voice  to 
a  tone  of  kindly  patronage  which  was  maddening,  "that  a 
great  deal  has  happened  since  we  dissolved  partnership?" 

"You  mean  that  you  think  I  can't  come  back?" 

"Well,  after  you  have  burned  your  bridges  it  is  difficult 
to  return  to  the  status  quo  ante." 

"The  time  has  come,"  Andy  blurted  desperately,  "when 
I've  got  to  do  something.  We  practised  law  together  for 
several  years  and  it's  quite  natural  that  I  should  come  back 
and  work  with  you.  I  wouldn't  ask  to  be  taken  back  into 
the  firm  until  I'd  made  good." 

Slowly  Gaston  Cole  wagged  his  big  bald  head. 

"The  law  is  a  serious  matter.  I  don't  deny  your  popu 
larity  with  a  certain  set — I'll  go  farther  than  that  and  grant 
that  you  are  the  most  popular  man  in  Belleville.  But  you 
never  were  a  business  lawyer.  And  I'm  afraid  if  you  went 
into  court  to-day  to  plead  you  wouldn't — make  the  right 
impression." 

"You  mean  they'd  laugh  at  me  ?"  asked  Andy  hotly,  com 
ing  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  saying  this  in  the  kindliest  possible  spirit.  In  the 
law  appearances  count  for  a  great  deal.  A  great  deal." 

"If  there  were  the  shadow  of  a  chance  in  this  office" • 

Cole  arose  ponderously  and  held  out  his  hand — "I  should 
be  more  than  glad  to  welcome  you  back.  And  if  you'll  take 
a  little  advice  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  given " 

"I'm  willing  to  take  anything,"  bitterly  Andy  backed 
toward  the  door. 

"Why  don't  you  commercialise  your  really  great  gift?" 

"Mine?" 

"You  must  have  put  a  world  of  energy  and  practice  into 
learning — that  sort  of  stuff  you've  been  doing  up  on  the 
Hill.  Why  don't  you  go  on  the  stage — dignify  it  into  a 
profession  ?" 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  75 

"Family  reasons,"  smiled  Andy  bravely.  "My  mother  is 
very  anxious  for  me  to  get  back  into  the  law." 

"I  should  like  to  help,  but  I'm  afraid  it  would  be  mis 
directed.  You  see,  Andy,  you've  become  an  amateur." 

He  held  open  the  door  for  his  departing  guest. 

There  stood  a  dangerous  looking  steel  bodied  racing  car 
out  in  front  of  the  Commercial  House  and  Andy  had  no 
sooner  passed  it  than  he  saw  Sam  Bethel  himself,  noisily 
clad  for  motoring,  come  out  by  a  side  door  and  waddle  over 
toward  the  car.  The  coincidence  was  too  much  for  good 
resolutions  and  the  fact  that  the  little  man  held  up  one  of 
his  short  arms  like  a  semaphore  signal  half  influenced  Andy 
to  take  his  pride  in  his  teeth  and  brazen  the  inevitable. 

"Been  talkin'  with  the  undertaker?"  asked  Bethel,  his 
cock  eyes  twinkling  merrily  as  he  took  note  of  Andy's  un 
usual  gravity. 

"Gas  Cole,"  replied  the  ex-humourist. 

"Same  thing,"  supplied  the  manager.  "Grave-digger,  em- 
balmer  and  licensed  pall-bearer.  Cole,  Phipps  and  Bren- 
ning!  Say,  how  do  they  do  it?  I  never  see  'em  but  what 
I  want  to  burst  into  tears.  Have  a  drink  ?" 

"No,  thanks." 

Cole,  Phipps  and  Brenning  seemed  to  be  on  Mr.  Bethel's 
nerves,  for  he  dug  a  finger  into  Andy's  ribs  and  went  on, 

"How  do  they  get  like  that?  I  tell  you,  Andy,  it's  done 
you  a  lot  of  good  buzzin'  round  the  Four  Hundred  kids 
up  on  the  Hill.  It's  loosened  you  up.  Do  you  realise  that 
when  you  were  practising  law  you  used  to  be  enough  like 
'Gaston  Cole  to  be  his  little  brother?" 

"Oh,  say  not  so !"  plead  the  accused. 

"Fact.  And  here  I  come  along  with  a  perfectly  good 
lawsuit  and  old  Gas  sits  there  clucking  as  if  he  was  going 
to  lay  an  egg  and  says  'Undignified !'  " 

"It's  something  about  a  team  of  trained  chimpanzees?" 
inquired  Andy,  mainly  because  he  wanted  to  keep  the  mana 
ger  a  little  longer. 


76  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

r*"**^  ^^^^^^^^^"•^••••^^^••••••^•q 

"You've  heard  about  it?"  The  publicity  instinct  of  the 
man  was  pleased.  "They've  been  big  headliners  for  three 
seasons  now — Professor  Klegg's  Mutt  and  Nutt.  They're 
really  a  wonderfully  talented  pair  of  monks.  Well,  we  got 
'em  trained  to  do  the  Ballet  Russe  this  season  and  it  was 
going  big  when  along  comes  a  faker  named  Olsen  with  a 
couple  of  very  inferior  chimps.  And  he  runs  'em  in  the 
Joy  Circuit  under  the  same  name — Mutt  and  Nutt,  with  a 
very  poor  Ballet  Russe.  See  ?  They're  no  artists.  They're 
crabbing  the  reputation  of  my  chimps  and  I  want  satisfac 
tion." 

"Defamation  of  character?"  asked  Andy. 

"That's  a  good  idea  if  you  can  get  away  with  it. 

"You  can  get  away  with  anything,  if  you  go  at  it  right." 

"You've  said  something."  Mr.  Bethel  stood  pondering 
the  possibilities.  Presently  he  came  out  of  his  trance,  held 
out  his  hand  and  took  a  step  toward  the  car. 

"Sam,"  said  Andy,  who  had  already  decided  against  ma 
ternal  prejudices.  "I'm  looking  for  a  job  and  I  think  you 
can  help  me/' 

"Shoot!"  replied  Bethel,  already  on  his  guard. 

"I  wonder  just  how  much  I  would  be  worth  if  I  went 
into  vaudeville." 

"About  nine  a  week,"  replied  the  little  man.  It  was 
everybody's  privilege  to  josh  Andy. 

"I'm  speaking  quite  seriously."  It  seemed  to  Andy  that 
he  had  said  this  a  hundred  times  to-day. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  ?    Off  your  feed  ?" 

"I've  got  to  make  some  money.  Funny  stuff's  all  I  can 
do.  And  I  think  I  do  that  rather  well." 

"Well,"  spoke  the  manager  cannily,  "if  you  tried  it  pro 
fessionally  you  wouldn't  find  it  so  darned  funny.  I  know 
about  you  amateurs.  You're  used  to  standing  up  before 
friends  and  getting  their  kind  applause  because  you're  the 
son  of  James  W.  Fitz  Flapper.  Anything  goes  in  the  par 
lour.  Applause  and  loud  laughter.  You  sound  like  a  mil 
lion  dollars.  But  try  to  drop  the  same  stuff  into  the  average 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  77 

Bethel  audience  and  it  flattens  out  like  a  gob  of  sour  dough. 
Most  amateurs  are  spoiled  from  the  start  by  being  told 
how  perfectly  lovely  they  are.  A  professional  has  to  get 
used  to  a  crowd  hollering  'Rotten!'  before  he  can  make 
good.  A  big  name?  Yes,  that'll  go  some,  if  it's  big  enough 
and  well  advertised.  I'd  give  ten  thousand  a  week  to  the 
Pope  just  to  walk  across  the  stage.  But  take  it  by  and 
large,  it's  the  conscientious,  intelligent  professional  that 
gets  the  coin.  Look  at  my  educated  chimps  in  their  Ballet 
Russe !  What  makes  'em  go  ?  Experience,  my  boy." 

"What  salary  did  you  say  they  draw?" 

"Eight  hundred  a  week,"  announced  Mr.  Bethel  proudly. 
"And  they  earn  it." 

"Well,  thanks  for  the  nine  you  offer,"  said  Andy  as  he 
moved  away. 

"You've  got  to  remember  that  you're  an  amateur,"  said 
Mr.  Bethel  as  he  jumped  into  his  car;  and  if  he  made  any 
further  wise  remarks  they  were  squelched  in  the  rattle  of 
the  self-starter. 

Andy  took  a  solitary  dinner  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the 
Racquet  Club.  His  experience  as  a  job-seeker  had  been 
limited  to  the  day's  adventures,  but  the  indications  looked 
dark.  He  had  applied  for  work  in  the  only  two  fields  he 
knew — law  and  vaudeville — and  had  been  refused  in  both 
cases  because  he  was  an  amateur.  Well,  he  was  an  amateur. 
That  had  been  no  disgrace  as  long  as  money  came  to  him 
easily.  But  in  real  life,  apparently,  people  didn't  want  to 
be  either  entertained  or  bulldozed  in  the  gentlemanly  method 
of  the  drawing  room.  Then  he  thought  of  Mrs.  Talcroft 
Skeen. 

He  had  given  the  bulk  of  his  time  now  for  over  two 
weeks,  writing,  rehearsing  and  costuming  the  elaborate  per 
formance  which  was  to  take  place  in  about  ten  days  and  in 
which  he  was  to  have  the  principal  part.  He  reflected  upon 
Mr.  Bethel's  discouraging  essay  with  a  sort  of  doleful  re 
lief.  Had  the  enterprising  manager  snapped  him  up  at  a 
fancy  salary,  as  Andy  had  predicted  he  would,  the  offer 


78  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

could  never  have  been  accepted.  Andy  knew  his  mother's 
pride  and  prejudice  and  realised  that  it  would  kill  her  to 
know  that  her  son  had  taken  to  professional  vaudeville. 
But  then  there  was  Mrs.  Skeen.  .  .  . 

The  more  Andy  thought  over  Mrs.  Skeen  the  better  it 
looked  to  him.  No  professional  entertainer  could  have 
worked  for  her  so  assiduously  as  Andy  had  worked  these 
three  years.  The  reputation  she  had  won  through  her 
money,  as  displayed  in  Andy's  entertainments,  had  gained 
her  entree  into  houses  to  which  she  would  gladly  have 
crawled  on  her  jewelled  hands  and  silken  knees.  In  grate 
ful  moods  she  often  referred  to  Andy  as  "her  precious,  in 
dispensable  genius,"  and  this  was  scarcely  an  overstatement 
of  fact. 

Andy  wasn't  looking  for  gratitude;  but  ne  was  cast  into 
a  position  where  he  must  consider  himself  in  the  terms  of 
dollars.  He  would  let  his  past  experience  with  Mrs.  Skeen 
go  as  education,  he  reflected  to-night,  as  he  sat  alone  beside 
his  coffee  cup.  Mrs.  Skeen  had  far  more  money  than  was 
good  for  her  and  was  continually  signing  checks  for  the 
most  senseless  charities.  Now  how  about  this  Mad  Masque 
of  Mars  which  he  had  been  planning  and  rehearsing  so  in 
dustriously?  The  plot  concerned  a  young  aviator — Andy, 
of  course — who  had  planned  to  break  the  Belleville  altitude 
record  and  finds  himself  accidentally  stranded  on  the  planet 
Mars.  Asked  by  the  King  whence  he  came  and  why,  the 
Aviator  points  out  a  moving  picture  version  of  the  rolling 
Earth,  indicates  Belleville  on  the  Western  Hemisphere  and 
proceeds  to  lecture  on  the  charms  of  the  home  town.  Andy 
saw  the  hardest  kind  of  rehearsing  ahead  of  him  and  be 
gan  to  wonder,  vaguely  at  first,  if  here  wasn't  a  solution  to 
his  problem. 

The  rehearsal  to-night  had  been  called  for  half -past  eight ; 
but  it  lacked  a  quarter  of  nine  when  Andy  wearily  took  his 
way  up  the  crooked  driveway  leading  to  the  big  white 
stuccoed  pile  on  the  Hill.  Reflectively  he  strolled  between 
the  high  gate-posts,  whose  peevish,  rampant  little  stone  lions 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  79 

showed  fearsomely  in  the  moonlight.  It  had  been  easy  to 
ask  Sam  Bethel  for  a  job  and  the  tackling  of  Gaston  Cole 
had  been  less  painful  than  he  had  anticipated.  But  with 
Mrs.  Talcroft  Skeen  it  was  different.  It  was  a  perfectly 
fair  request  he  was  intending  to  make,  yet  a  million  un 
formed  obstacles  seemed  to  loom  before  him.  Mrs.  Skeen 
was  a  lady  who  worshipped  the  social  delicacies,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  her  father  had  made  his  millions  in  the 
manufacture  and  sale  of  a  patent  fertiliser. 

A  liveried  man  had  no  sooner  shown  him  in  at  the  ornate 
front  door  than  Mrs.  Skeen  herself  came  volubly  forth  to 
greet  his  late  appearance.  Like  her  house  Mrs.  Skeen  was 
elaborate  and  showy.  Her  hair  was  an  unusual  shade  of 
auburn  and  she  wore  a  very  high  collar  to  conceal  her  sag 
ging  throat;  for  she  had  eaten  to  grow  thin  a  few  months 
ago  and  since  then  her  skin  had  remained  several  sizes  toq 
large  for  her  diminished  figure. 

"You  angel  of  deliverance !"  she  hailed  him  with  a  little 
gushing  shriek,  and  caressed  his  sleeve  with  her  ringed 
fingers.  "Everything's  a  perfect  mess.  Just  hear  those 
brats  screaming  in  there !" 

Distantly  from  the  ball-room,  where  the  Mad  Martians 
had  assembled  for  rehearsal,  Andy  could  hear  their  youth 
ful  clatter. 

"I'll  rush  right  in  and  brain  them  for  you,  Miss  Eliza." 
She  only  permitted  her  favourites  to  address  her  so. 

"What's  wrong,  Andy?    You  look  tired  to  death." 

That  was  a  splendid  opening,  yet  he  weakened  on  the 
verge. 

"I've  been  thinking.     Naturally  I'm  quite  exhausted." 

"Let  it  be  a  lesson  to  you."  By  the  turn  of  her  keenly 
selfish  little  grey  eyes  he  could  see  that  her  mind  was  on 
the  younger  set,  rioting  in  the  ball-room. 

"They're  all  conspiring  against  me,  Andy.  If  it  weren't 
for  you  I  should  go  insane.  I  want  you  to  see  what  Hen- 
dricks  has  sent  me  as  samples  of  draperies  for  the  Court 
scene." 


8o  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^^^^^m*m^^~~*i~*^******^^ 

"Leave  it  to  Handy  Andy!"  he  gibed  as  she  looped  her 
arm  in  his  and  led  him  away  toward  a  little  room  beyond 
the  high  Italian  mantel.  He  knew  that  this  woman  would 
be  generous  to  her  court  jester  in  trouble. 

She  closed  the  door  behind  them  in  the  small  space  which 
she  chose  to  call  her  "work  room"  and  whose  cluttering  of 
small,  meaningless  finery  revealed  the  owner's  taste,  which 
was  naturally  poor.  From  a  pot-bellied,  spindle-shanked, 
hand-painted  desk  she  brought  forth  a  half  dozen  squares 
of  brilliant  material.  She  laid  them  out  on  an  onyx-topped 
table  and  stood  regarding  him  as  he  pawed  them  over 
judicially. 

He  picked  up  a  square  of  wild  electric  blue  and  held  it 
under  the  light. 

"That's  very  good,"  he  pronounced  solemnly,  striving 
vainly  to  key  his  tone  to  its  wonted  enthusiasm. 

"Mad  dog !    It's  a  nightmare." 

"That's  the  very  idea.  We're  giving  a  scene  on  Mars. 
Most  of  the  costumes  will  be  silver  and  I'll  be  wearing  a 
comedy  suit  of  bright  orange." 

"I'm  sure  you  must  know,  Andy,"  she  assured  him,  giving 
him  a  sharp  look  out  of  her  shrewd  grey  eyes  with  the  badly 
enamelled  wrinkles  at  the  corners.  "I  had  Sam  Bethel  look 
over  the  colour  scheme  to-day  and  he  didn't  seem  quite  so 
sure." 

"Sam  Bethel!"  There  wasn't  really  any  cause  for  sur 
prise  that  the  capable  manager  should  have  been  taken  into 
her  confidence.  It  was  a  coincidence,  that  was  all. 

"Of  course,  if  you  mind,  Andy " 

"Not  in  the  least,"  he  cordially  assured  her.  "I  should 
be  glad  to  have  his  assistance." 

"All  he'll  do  will  be  to  supply  a  few  stage  hands.  He 
says  he  doesn't  like  amateur  performances.  He's  tremen 
dously  vulgar.  And,  Andy,  do  you  know  what  I'll  have  to 
do  with  Sam  Bethel?" 

Andy  couldn't  imagine.  Nothing  less  than  murder,  ap 
parently. 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  81 


"I  can't  see  any  way  around  it.  I'll  have  to  ask  him  to 
my  party."  This  was  her  way  of  confessing  the  social  bribe 
by  which  she  had  saved  money  on  stage  hands. 

"Bully!  Hand  him  over  to  me.  In  my  opinion,  Sam's 
one  of  the  few  interesting  men  in  Belleville." 

She  gave  his  case  another  quick,  quizzical  diagnosis. 

"What's  happened  to  you,  Andy?" 

"Happened?"  He  swallowed  hard  and  hoped  she  didn't 
see  it. 

"You're  sour  about  something.  You're  bitter  without  be 
ing  funny.  Is  it  serious?" 

This  was  the  third  chance  she  had  given  him  and  he  took 
it. 

"I'm  in  a  peculiar  kind  of  corner " 

"My  dear !     Tell  me  all  about  it." 

She  motioned  him  to  an  uncomfortable  chair  and  took  a 
seat  beside  him. 

"I'm  broke — I'm  not  going  to  allow  Consie's  money  to 
support  me.  It's  up  to  me  to  go  to  work." 

"I'm  so  sorry."  She  said  this  with  a  show  of  surprise 
and  he  wondered  if  she  had  heard. 

"It's  necessary  for  me  to  devote  all  my  time  and 
strength " 

"But,  my  poor  boy,  what  can  you  do  ?" 

"That's  the  point.  I'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  my  abili 
ties,  such  as  I've  got." 

"I'll  venture  to  say  you  don't  know  the  slightest  thing 
about  business." 

"No.  All  I  really  know  how  to  do  well  is  this  sort  of 
thing."  He  directed  a  sweeping  gesture  toward  the  noisy 
ball-room. 

There  ensued  a  terrible  pause  in  which  Mrs.  Skeen  sat 
quite  without  understanding.  Couldn't  the  woman  take  a 
hint? 

"It's  awful,  Andy,"  she  said  at  last,  "to  think  of  your 
going  into  the  wretched  hum-drum  of  business.  It  has  been 
such  a  joy  to  have  you  with  me  at  my  parties.  And  I'm 


82  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


planning  the  most  wonderful  spectacles  for  next  winter. 
I'm  sure,  Andy,  that  you'll  relent  when  you  see  the  parts 
I've  got  for  you." 

He  stared  at  her  in  blank  amazement.  It  didn't  seem 
real,  yet  it  was  obvious  that  Mrs.  Talcroft  Skeen  was  tak 
ing  to  herself  the  undivided  credit  for  all  the  successful  en 
tertainments  which  Andy  had  planned  and  carried  out !  He 
resolved  now  to  drop  the  slender  rapier  and  attack  her  with 
a  club. 

"Don't  you  think,"  he  asked  baldly,  "that  I  could  make  a 
good  living  as  coach  and  producer  of  amateur  entertain 
ments  ?" 

"Oh,  Andy,  you  poor  foolish  dear !" 

"I  don't  mean  to  start  in  right  now,"  he  protested,  half 
ashamed.  This  woman  had  always  had  the  effect  of  bluffing 
him  out  of  his  resolutions.  He  had  given  her  a  chance  and 
he  was  far  too  proud  to  let  it  go  begging. 

"It  has  been  so  wonderful  as  it  was,"  she  was  expostu 
lating.  "Everything  done  for  the  fun  of  it — for  the  joy 
of  it.  You'd  be  putting  yourself  in  a  dreadfully  false  po 
sition,  you  know.  They'd  be  calling  you  a  professional." 

"Anybody  that  ever  does  anything  is  a  professional,"  he 
informed  her  calmly. 

"Yes,  but  you'd  be  going  into  a  class " 

"Live  or  die,  I  mustn't  do  that,"  he  assured  her  with  a 
futile  sarcasm.  "Shall  we  rush  in  and  still  the  mob?" 

They  walked  together  through  the  great  hall  toward  the 
waiting  rehearsal  whence  came  calfish  bawls  of  "Author! 
Author!" 

"You'd  be  rubbing  some  of  the  bloom  off,"  she  whispered 
affectionately  as  she  squeezed  his  hand.  "That's  been  your 
charm.  You've  been  such  a  delightful  am " 

"Whatever  you  do,"  he  raised  an  agonised  appeal,  "don't 
call  me  an  amateur!" 

Never  before  had  Andy  been  disgusted  with  or  even  criti- 
al  of  the  amateur  point  of  view.     But  to-night  as  the 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  83 

!  *^"^^"~^"""""""'  """""* """ ~*^ "••" 

frivolous  youngsters  of  his  troupe  gambolled  and  larked 
through  the  rehearsal,  disregarding  orders,  forgetting  the 
simplest  lines,  the  amateur  director  was  amazed  to  think 
how  he  had  floated  so  long,  lighter  than  air,  upon  this  atmos 
phere  of  praise.  While  he  stood  by  the  piano,  vainly  striv 
ing  to  drive  a  single-line  speech  into  the  pretty  head  of 
Maisie  Whipple,  who  had  alternately  learned  and  forgotten 
that  same  line  every  night  for  two  weeks,  the  younger  set 
turned  on  the  phonograph,  practised  dance-steps  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  piece,  encouraged  two  loutish  fresh 
men  in  a  burlesque  boxing  bout,  roared  at  Campbell  Hill's 
poor  imitation  of  Andy's  latest  monologue. 

The  traditional  Hanovanian  good  nature  cracked  and  fire 
began  to  spit  out. 

"I've  got  to  have  attention !"  he  roared,  going  forth  and 
dragging  toward  the  piano  each  comely  member  of  the  Mars 
Maiden  Chorus,  whom  he  must  train  to  sing  a  greeting  to  his 
descent  upon  the  red  planet. 

A  hired  pianist  patiently  thumped  the  keys  while  the 
chorus  shrilled  raggedly  through  the  big  room.  The  mixed 
effect  was  due  to  the  fact  that  each  of  the  eight  pretty  girls 
had  forgotten  a  part  of  her  song  and  each  a  different  part, 
the  hiatus  being  supplied  with  the  good  old  stand-by  of  the 
forgetful,  "La- la,  la-la,  la,  la,  la!" 

"Katherine !"  Andy  summoned  from  her  flirtation  the 
tallest  of  the  beautiful,  blonde,  brainless  Fenley  sisters. 
Katherine,  as  Crown  Princess  of  Mars,  was  to  have  a  lead 
ing  part  in  the  aviator's  reception.  She  came  obediently, 
after  casting  a  languishing  glance  to  the  rear. 

"Andy,  I've  got  a  dreadful  cold,"  she  began. 

"Good.  You  can't  talk  through  your  lines  leading  up 
to  my  cue." 

The  eight  Maids  of  Mars,  gathered  around,  were  begin 
ning  to  chatter  again. 

"Oh,  please !"  he  implored. 

"Isn't  he  a  horrid  bear  to-night !"  whispered  the  shortest 
of  the  Fenley  sisters. 


84  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

The  piano  whanged  as  Katherine  went  stumblingly 
through  her  lines.  Approaching  the  end  she  uplifted  her 
pretty,  mediocre  treble. 

Kitty 

Oh,   Mr.  Aviator, 
You  have  a  foolish  face  I 

Andy 

You're  right,  my  dear, 
I've  journeyed  here 
From  a  very  foolish  place. 

Kitty 

What  distant  city  gave  you  birth? 

Andy 

Belleville,  the  centre  of  the  earth. 
(Etc.,  etc.,  etc.) 


Ill 

The  fact  that  Andy  had  to  live  with  his  mother  those  ten 
days  did  nothing  toward  improving  his  frame  of  mind. 
Mrs.  Hanovan  uttered  no  word  of  reproach  that  he  showed 
no  inclination  to  apply  himself  to  the  law  or  that  he  was 
still  at  the  beck  and  call  of  "that  Skeen  woman"  on  the 
Hill.  A  dark  ten  days  for  Andy,  unlightened  by  the  thank 
less  and  payless  labour  of  knocking  musical  comedy  into 
the  block  head  of  Belleville.  His  story  got  round  town  and 
was  repeated  with  fair  accuracy ;  and  the  knowledge  that  it 
was  known  caused  him  to  slink  in  spite  of  himself  as  he 
went  feeling  about  among  his  friends  for  what  he  thought 
of  vaguely  as  "an  opening." 

Consie  wrote  to  him  once,  a  sweet  and  chatty  letter  with 
out  any  reference  to  what  had  happened  between  them. 
Andy  kept  the  letter  in  his  pocket.  He  had  no  bitterness 
toward  Consie.  It  was  merely  hopelessness,  that  was  all. 

Once  after  a  rehearsal  Mrs.  Skeen  had  come  to  him  quite 
magnanimously  and  offered  him  a  situation  as  manager  of 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  85 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^~~~*~m^*~~*~*~*~~**~^~~^^^^~m^~^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

the  Heatherways  Club.  So  profound  was  his  humility  that* 
Andy  considered  the  job,  until,  upon  investigation,  he  found 
that  the  club  was  now  being  excellently  run  by  a  profes 
sional  steward — that  the  quite  useless  post  of  "manager" 
was  being  created  merely  as  an  excuse  for  giving  Andy 
something  to  do.  The  position  offered  seventy-five  dollars 
a  month  and  board.  Andy  considered  the  job  and,  regard 
ing  it  from  every  angle,  concluded  that  death  would  be  more 
dignified,  if  not  more  comfortable. 

It  was,  then,  a  curiously  repressed  Andy  Hanovan  who 
pulled  on  a  comic  costume,  preparatory  to  taking  centre 
stage  at  the  one  and  only  performance  of  the  Mad  Masque 
of  Mars. 

Of  course  the  show  was  an  hour  or  more  late  in  begin 
ning.  Andy,  experienced  in  amateur  performances,  had 
long  since  given  up  hope  of  seeing  one  open  on  time.  But 
to-night  the  preliminary  chaos  left  him  cold.  Clad  gro 
tesquely  in  a  bright  orange  aviation  suit,  wearing  a  monocle 
over  one  eye  and  a  silk  hat  somewhat  slantingly  on  his  head, 
he  slouched  wearily  across  the  stage,  exhorting  several  stage 
hands — kindly  loaned  by  Mr.  Sam  Bethel — to  prompter 
action.  The  men  hitched  up  their  overalls  and  gave  him  the 
grin  of  contempt  which  the  professional  ever  yields  the 
amateur. 

Big  Bill  Hubbard,  who  was  to  be  King  of  Mars,  com 
plained  childishly  to  his  manager  because  he  couldn't  get  his 
royal  crown  on  his  head  "without  splittin*  the  darned  thing." 
One  of  the  Martian  seneschals  tripped  over  his  spear  and 
tore  a  jagged  hole  in  the  starry  heavens,  painted  on  the  back 
drop  outside  the  palace  window.  A  Mad  Maid  of  Mars 
lost — if  I  may  be  permitted  to  say  so — one  of  her  stockings 
and  refused  to  appear  until  another  just  like  it  was  supplied. 
Pandemonium  reigned  in  the  red  planet ;  which  was  all  right 
from  the  Martian  point  of  view.  But  "out  in  front"  a  mere 
earth-born  audience  was  sending  up  sarcastic  gusts  of  ap 
plause.  They  were  growing  tired  of  waiting. 

Andy  walked  over  to  a  hole  in  the  curtain  and  took  a 


86  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

peep.  Mrs.  Skeen's  ample  ball-room  was  undoubtedly 
crowded  "to  capacity."  The  unpopular  Browning  family 
had  just  arrived  in  a  body,  as  for  mutual  protection.  Stuart 
Bayliss,  like  the  petted  beauty  that  he  was,  was  rambling 
handsomely  from  chair  to  chair.  Charley  White,  the  always 
affable  President  of  the  Belleville  Gas  and  Electric  Com 
pany,  had  a  seat  toward  the  front,  between  his  large  family 
of  daughters.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gaston  Cole  sat  stolidly  near 
the  centre  aisle.  All  the  picture  of  his  days  was  revealed 
there  before  Andy  Hanovan,  who  scanned  it  carefully  from 
his  ambush,  bitterly  resolved  that  this  should  be  his  last  ap 
pearance  before  a  Belleville  audience. 

The  stage  hands  were  now  bringing  the  clatter  to  a  cre 
scendo,  but  Andy  still  stood  at  the  peep-hole,  dwelling  fondly 
upon  the  spectacle  which  he  was  to  face  no  more.  Bertie 
Hall,  who,  since  his  downfall  on  that  past  St.  Valentine's 
eve,  had  retired  in  Andy's  favour  and  gone  into  the  banking 
business,  sat  blissfully  beside  his  pink-and-white  fiancee. 
There  was  old  Tom  Bullard,  making  himself  charming  as 
usual  to  a  chorus  of  debutantes ;  and  on  the  next  row  to  the 
rear 

Great  Scott!  Where  in  Mars  did  she  drop  from,  airily 
gowned  in  blue,  aqua  marine  dripping  at  her  slender  white 
throat,  her  eyes  puckered  to  a  teasing  smile  as  she  leaned 
toward  the  courtly  young  man  beside  her — Consuela ! 

The  sight  smote  him  with  a  weak  desire  to  run  away,  to 
blot  himself  out,  to  be  as  nothing.  Then  he  swore  softly 
under  his  breath.  She  could  make  splendid  preachments  on 
the  subject  of  life's  serious  side,  of  bucking  up,  being  a 
man  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Meanwhile  she  could  live 
at  Fairfield,  weltering  in  her  father's  prosperity,  and  disdain 
fully  trip  it  back  to  Belleville,  upon  occasion,  to  enjoy  the 
public  clowning  of  the  husband  she  had  made  into  a  clown. 

"Andy,  aren't  you  ever  going  to  begin  ?" 

Some  one  touched  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  he  came  back 
into  the  present  with  a  nervous  jerk.  There  stood  Mrs. 
Skeen,  her  costume  all  a-sparkle  like  the  Great  Glacier,  and 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  87 

beside  her  Sam  Bethel  in  an  ornately  pleated  shirt  with 
emerald  studs  the  size  of  pennies. 

"I've  done  everything  but  dress  'em,"  Andy  informed  her. 
"If  you'll  beg  'em  to  get  their  clothes  on,  maybe  we  can 
begin." 

"It's  nearly  ten  o'clock,"  wailed  the  patroness  of  art. 

"Be  calm,  madam,"  grinned  Sam  Bethel.  "If  people  liked 
things  on  time  they  wouldn't  like  amateur  shows.  For  my 
part  they  drive  me  crazy." 

"Don't  you  think  we've  arranged  a  lovely  scene?"  she 
asked,  indicating  the  glories  of  her  stage. 

"I  once  tried  a  set  like  that,"  grunted  Sam  disdainfully. 
"It  lasted  a  week." 

At  that  instant  the  Court  Jester  of  Mars  rushed  in  minus 
a  wig  and  implored  the  loan  of  a  pair  of  scissors.  Andy 
produced  a  pair  miraculously  from  under  his  aviation  suit 
and  Sam  continued  to  grin. 

"Mrs.  Skeen,"  said  he,  "I'm  boss  of  forty-eight  vaude 
ville  houses ;  and  when  they're  goin'  all  at  once  they  make 
me  a  lot  of  trouble.  But  I  wouldn't  trade  my  job  for 
Andy's — not  for  a  bonus  of  a  million  a  year." 

"Mercenary  beast !"  scolded  the  great  lady. 

"I  don't  know  what  Andy  gets  out  of  all  this,"  persisted 
the  social  bull.  "But  he  sure  do  earn  it." 

"Get  out!  You're  more  trouble  than  all  the  actors." 
Mrs.  Skeen  led  him  away ;  and  the  fact  that  the  manager's 
gibe  had  struck  home  was  apparent  in  the  self -consciousness 
with  which  she  quit  the  scene. 

The  curtain  rolled  up  to  the  customary  rounds  of  ap 
plause,  which  included  some  laughter,  because  one  of  the 
Maids  of  Mars  came  in  from  the  wrong  side,  got  tangled 
among  the  chorus  men  and  had  to  be  sorted  out  in  full  view 
of  the  audience.  Andy  Hanovan,  sweating  in  a  hot  aviation 
costume,  stood  in  the  wings  and  saw  all  this  through  a  veil. 
He  didn't  much  care  whether  it  went  well  or  wry.  His 
springs  of  illusion  had  all  dried  up.  Quite  impartially  at  this 


88  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

moment  he  could  see  what  Sam  Bethel  meant  by  amateurs. 
Nothing  went  as  it  should.  Everybody  had  relatives  and 
friends  in  the  audience  to  acclaim  mediocrity  with  indulgent 
palms.  The  wheels  of  his  home-built  comedy  creaked  on 
their  rusty  axles,  the  music  of  an  amateur  composer  tinkled 
insipidly.  There  was  every  variety  of  bad  acting,  from 
shrill  over-eagerness  to  gasping  stage-fright.  He  saw  there 
the  behaviour  of  raw  recruits  who,  unused  to  arms,  fired 
at  random  and  hit  nothing. 

However,  the  performance  rattled  on  toward  the  scene 
which  was  to  introduce  the  visiting  avxator  from  Belleville. 
The  stage  gradually  darkened  to  the  thunderous  speech  of 
the  King  and  a  clamour  from  the  court.  A  moving-picture 
machine  at  the  back  of  the  hall  came  into  play,  throwing  on 
the  heavenly  back-drop  outside  the  Martian  window  a  very 
natural  likeness  of  the  rolling  planet  upon  which  we  live 
and  quarrel.  Somewhat  raggedly  the  chorus  chirped,  "Hail ! 
hail !  The  Earth !"  just  as  a  moving-picture  airplane  came 
soaring  across  the  screen. 

"The  miracle  !  The  miracle !"  bleated  Big  Bill  Hubbard, 
King  of  Mars,  in  his  mechanical  voice.  Andy,  per  cue,  ad 
justed  his  monocle  and  stepped  on  the  darkened  stage.  The 
lights  came  on  much  too  slowly,  but  the  audience  didn't 
mind,  for  the  dawning  radiance  revealed  Andy — their  Andy ! 
Applause  began  to  clatter  like  hail  upon  a  tin  roof. 

"Who  sent  thee  here?"  bleats  the  King  under  his  big 
white  beard. 

"The  Belleville  Gas  and  Electric  Company,"  upspeaks  the 
stranger. 

"What  is  thy  quest?" 

"Mars  has  been  burning  brightly  for  a  million  years  and 
Charley  White  has  sent  me  to  read  your  meter." 

The  affable  Gas  President,  being  in  the  centre  of  the  audi 
ence,  lifted  his  great  laugh  and  spread  it  about  him;  local 
pride  was  tickled  to  the  core  and  the  Mad  Masque  was  a 
success  even  before  Andy  plunged  into  his  dreadfully  comic 
song.  He  was  never  better  than  to-night,  and  he  took  ad- 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  89 

I  .  \ 

vantage  of  the  tide  to  play  his  burlesque  in  the  highest  pos 
sible  key.  Belleville  could  scarcely  wait  for  the  jokes  to 
come  out  of  his  mouth  before  they  yelled  for  more.  Much 
as  he  had  won  his  fool's  cap  on  that  past  St.  Valentine's 
eve  he  came  out  of  his  lethargy  to-night  and  conquered  them 
utterly. 

"Isn't  he  too  wonderful!"  he  heard  a  shrill,  hysterical 
treble  lifted  in  one  of  those  lulls  which  follow  a  gale.  The 
remark  brought  on  another  storm.  And  when,  like  Joshua 
with  a  reverse  English,  he  had  borrowed  the  King's  sceptre 
and  bade  the  Earth  stand  still  long  enough  to  point  out 
Belleville  on  the  map,  Mrs.  Skeen's  ball-room  quaked  peril 
ously.  To-night  Andy  spared  nobody.  With  his  short 
wand  he  jabbed  the  inhabitants  categorically,  working  up 
gradually  to  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Skeen. 

"She  has  two  little  lions  on  her  gate-posts,"  he  explained 
solemnly.  "They're  a  team  of  trained  lions  named  Mutt 
and  Nutt — I  hope  Mr.  Bethel  won't  bring  suit — he  can't 
very  well,  because  they  work  without  pay.  They're  ama 
teurs." 

Andy's  borrowed  sceptre  became,  indeed,  a  spear  that 
knew  no  brother.  And  of  all  that  audience  perhaps  the  only 
one  who  remained  unspeared  was  a  pretty  little  woman  in 
blue  who  always  laughed  at  the  right  place,  her  eyes  puck 
ering  mirthfully,  a  pendant  of  aqua  marines  bobbing  at  her 
throat. 

When  the  curtain  went  down  at  last  the  house  was  ring 
ing  again  to  the  summons,  "Andy !  Andy !  Speech ! 
Speech!" 

Mrs.  Skeen  came  to  him  where  he  stood  dazed  in  the 
wings  and  commanded  affectionately, 

"You've  got  to  say  something,  my  dear !  Be  a  good 
boy!" 

The  curtain  rolled  up  again  before  Mrs.  Skeen  got  off 
the  stage,  which  was  probably  as  she  had  intended  it.  With 
out  the  least  hesitation  she  took  her  protege  by  the  hand, 


90  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

led  him  to  the  footlights  and  bowed  herself  to  an  exit.  Andy 
Hanovan  stood  there  with  all  the  coolness  of  one  who  knows 
his  public.  He  grinned  a  moment  in  pretended  bashf  ulness, 
then  deliberately  showed  them  the  broad  of  his  back  as  he 
strolled  up  stage,  laid  his  hands  on  the  deserted  throne  chair 
and,  after  much  clownish  slipping  and  struggling,  wheeled 
it  down  to  the  footlights.  There  he  patted  it  fussily,  shoved 
it  one  way  and  then  another,  stood  off  and  surveyed  it,  his 
bandy  legs  fidgeting,  his  head  cocked  to  one  side. 

"Friends  and  playmates,"  he  began  easily  as  he  struck  a 
pompous  pose  at  the  side  of  the  big  chair,  "before  this  exhi 
bition  begins  I  want  to  warn  you,  so  that  in  case  you  don't 
like  what's  coming  our  gentlemanly  ushers  may  show  you 
out  by  the  fire  exits.  I  am  going  to  close  the  evening  with 
a  little  auction.  No,  not  a  card  game.  A  shell  game.  All 
the  money  in  Belleville  is  here  to-night  in  some  form  or 
other — solid,  liquid  or  gaseous — that  includes  Charley  White 
— and  we're  not  going  to  unlock  the  doors  until  the  goods 
are  knocked  down  to  the  highest  bidder.  Do  I  hear  any 
dissenting  voice  ?" 

Cries  of  "Fake!  Fake!"  and  invitations  to  put  up  or 
shut  up  encouraged  the  speaker  to  further  effort. 

"I  thank  you.  Before  the  bidding  begins  I  wish  to  state 
that  the  article  I  am  putting  up  for  sale  has  been  tried  by 
every  member  of  the  colony  and  found  delicious.  It  is  an 
ornament  to  any  home,  will  not  injure  the  most  delicate  fab 
ric  and  is  a  great  favourite  when  served  with  tea." 

"Animal,  vegetable  or  mineral?"  thundered  out  Charley 
White  with  one  of  his  earthquake  laughs. 

"Strictly  vegetable ;  a  fungus,"  replied  Andy  promptly. 

"Put  up  the  goods !"  shouted  Bertie  Hall  in  an  echo  of 
his  old  comedy  voice. 

Very  nimbly  Andy  jumped  up  into  the  throne  chair  ai:  ' 
stood  grinning  down  upon  his  audience. 

"I'm  the  goods,"  said  he.  "And  now  who  wants  to  start 
the  bidding?  We  are  offering  for  unrestricted  sale  the 
former  Andrew  Hanovan,  commonly  known  as  Andy." 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  91 

He  paused  and  permitted  the  facetious  cheers,  "It  can't 
be  done !"  and  "It's  damaged !"  to  settle  down  before  he 
proceeded. 

"Andy  Hanovan  is  no  stranger  to  this  audience.  You  all 
know  his  virtues  and  his  faults  need  no  introduction.  He 
would  be  an  ornament  to  any  home,  and  with  a  little  train 
ing  might  be  turned  into  a  useful  utensil.  Could  be  taught 
to  entertain  the  baby,  play  the  pianola  or  referee  family 
quarrels.  Has  no  objection  to  work,  but  very  little  prac 
tice.  Would  make  an  excellent  caddie  or  could  serve  as 
extra  man  on  a  honeymoon  tour.  In  other  words,  he's  will 
ing  to  be  anything  in  the  world  but  an  amateur." 

The  crowd  tittered  gently,  but  the  atmosphere  was  grow 
ing  tense.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  everybody  knew  what 
was  the  matter  with  Andy  Hanovan. 

"In  short,"  said  Andy,  leaning  far  over  and  dropping  his 
monocle  from  a  face  which  had  become  deep-lined  and 
tragic,  "I  want  a  job  and  I  don't  much  care  what  it  is. 
Belleville  here  knows  my  case — knows  why  I'm  a  retired 
lawyer  at  thirty-seven  without  the  ghost  of  a  chance  to  get 
my  practice  back.  Everybody  here  knows  that  I  stopped 
my  real  work  to  give  Belleville  a  good  time.  I  don't  be 
grudge  a  minute  of  it.  But  now  that  the  entertainment  is 
over  and  I'm  pulling  down  the  curtain  on  the  show,  I'm  ask 
ing  Belleville  to  reciprocate.  Somebody  has  got  to  find  me 
a  job.  How  much  do  you  bid,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  on  the 
time  and  talents  of  Andy  Hanovan?" 

"Thirty-two  cents !"  The  bid  came  distinctly  from  the 
direction  of  Gaston  Cole. 

"I'd  be  worth  two  dollars  a  week  to  you  as  a  necktie 
buyer,"  protested  Andy,  getting  down  and  leaning  over  the 
footlights.  "Your  neckties  are  a  scandal  to  the  law, 
Gaston." 

"Make  it  one-seventy-five,"  said  his  ex-partner  with  a 
spike-toothed  smile. 

"One-seventy-five  from  Cole,"  went  on  the  auctioneer  in 
silvery  tones,  "do  I  hear  two?" 


92  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Two  and  a  quarter !"  One  of  the  beautiful  blond  brain 
less  Fenley  sisters  belled  this  forth,  having  been  prompted 
by  her  escort.  "Two  and  a  quarter  to  exercise  the  canary." 

"Going  up !"  shouted  Andy.  "And  now  where's  two  and 
a  half?" 

"Can  you  tell  funny  stories  to  the  Interstate  Commerce 
Commission?"  bellowed  Charley  White. 

"Funnier  than  anything  you  can  testify,  Charley,"  the 
auctioneer  assured  the  gas  man. 

"Three  dollars  a  week !"     Up  went  as  many  fingers. 

"We  have  three — now  do  I  hear  four?" 

"Three  and  a  half!"  Big  Bill  Hubbard,  standing  in 
kingly  robes  and  carrying  his  white  beard  over  one  arm, 
bawled  this  from  the  wings. 

"Come  out  here,  Bill,  and  show  yourself."  He  dragged 
forth  the  monarch  and  displayed  him  to  the  audience. 
"Here's  Bill  Hubbard  without  his  whiskers  and  bidding 
three  and  a  half  a  week  on  my  services.  Bill's  in  the  real 
estate  business,  selling  Belleville  suburban  lots,  and  he  often 
makes  as  much  as  four  dollars  a  day.  Three  and  a  half ! 
Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Bill?  Now,  come  on. 
Who  says  four  dollars?" 

The  bids  now  began  coming  in  briskly  in  terms  of  cents, 
Andy  was  offered  salaries  for  2very  job  under  the  sun  from 
local  dog  catcher  to  mushroom-gardener  on  the  golf  course. 
It  was  more  fun  than  Belleville  had  had  since  the  old  Club 
burned  down  and  the  company  quite  neglected  Mrs.  Skeen's 
excellent  supper  downstairs  in  the  excitement  of  helping 
Andy  sell  himself  at  public  auction.  When  the  bids  had 
mounted  up  to  five  sixty-two,  Andy  began  to  particularise, 
pointing  out  individuals  in  the  auction  and  exhorting  them 
to  brisker  bids. 

"Let's  speed  up  now,"  he  suggested,  walking  briskly  back 
and  forth  and  clapping  his  hands.  "If  you're  short  on 
ready  money,  what  do  you  offer  in  groceries,  liquor  or  ci 
gars  ?  As  a  retired  actor  I'll  accept  any  vegetables  but  to 
matoes.  Who  wants  me  as  a  chauffeur  ?  I've  had  experi- 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  93 

ence  at  running  a  car — I've  already  run  two  into  the 
ground." 

He  wished  he  hadn't  said  that,  for  in  a  sweeping  glance 
he  caught  sight  of  Consie's  pale  face,  staring  at  him  with  a 
hurt  expression.  He  swiftly  glanced  away  and  went  on 
with  his  harangue. 

"Well,  now — what  do  I  hear  in  groceries?  Mrs.  Skeen, 
your  credit's  good,  I  hear — " 

"Two  dinners  a  week,"  sang  out  that  lady  somewhat  con 
strainedly. 

"F.  O.  B.  with  wine?" 

"Any  way  you  like,"  she  offered  in  her  kindest  tone. 

"Seven  dollars  in  groceries  is  bid  by  Mrs.  Skeen.  Come 
now !  The  hour  grows  late.  Do  I  hear  anything  better  ? 
How  about  you,  Mr.  Cole?  And  you,  Mr.  White?  Mr. 
Bethel,  as  our  leading  amusement  magnate  you've  been 
strangely  silent.  This  game  is  open  to  all.  How  much  do 
I  hear,  Mr.  Bethel  ?" 

There  was  a  silence.  Evidently  Belleville  was  beginning 
to  get  enough  of  play.  Eyes,  however,  were  turned  toward 
the  over-dressed  little  man  in  the  front  row  and  there  was 
a  general  craning  of  necks  when  he  shuffled  awkwardly  and 
came  to  his  feet  before  the  whole  audience. 

"Andy,"  he  rasped,  looking  up  at  the  man  on  the  stage, 
"how  much  of  this  is  serious  and  how  much  monkey  busi 
ness?" 

"Every  darned  bit  of  it's  serious,"  responded  Andy  with 
out  hesitation. 

"You  mean  to  say  you're  willing  to  hire  out  on  the 
strength  of  this  fool  auction?" 

"If  I  live  to  take  the  money." 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Bethel  in  a  tone  of  finality,  "then 
I  bid  two  hundred  dollars  a  week." 

"Seriously?"  Andy  heard  somebody  with  his  voice  ask 
ing  the  question. 

"I  never  make  a  joke  out  of  two  hundred  a  week,"  said 
Mr.  Bethel,  and  sat  down. 


94  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  Andy  could  see  a  figure  in 
blue  arising  and  going  swiftly  toward  the  door. 

"One  to  Mr.  Sam  Bethel  at  two  hundred — two  at  two 
hundred — do  I  hear  two  hundred  and  ten?  Then  three  at 
two  hundred,  and  gone  to  Mr.  Sam  Bethel  at  two  hundred  a 
week.  Will  you  call  for  the  goods,  Mr.  Bethel,  or  shall  I 
have  them  sent  round?" 

When  Consuela,  trembling  and  uncertain,  knocked  on  his 
dressing-room  door  and  opened  to  his  harsh  "Come  in !"  she 
found  him  tying  his  evening  cravat  before  a  little  mirror 
which  reflected  the  deadly  seriousness  of  his  face. 

"Andy,"  she  appealed  softly,  but  he  didn't  turn  around 
until  the  knot  was  perfectly  smooth  and  straight. 

"Consie,"  he  said,  then  quite  uncordially,  "you  oughtn't 
to  be  coming  round  like  this.  It's  against  the  rules  of  the 
agreement,  you  know." 

"But,  Andy,  dear — you're  not  going  to  send  me  back,  are 
you?"  She  looked  into  a  face  which  was  perfectly  stony 
except  for  a  pair  of  suffering  human  eyes. 

"I'm  going  to  make  good,  Consie — or  jump  into  the 
river,"  he  said.  "But  not  this  time." 

"You  mean  to  say  you're  not  going  to  accept  Sam  Bethel's 
offer?" 

Andy  stood  there  and  shook  his  head.  To  resist  the  temp 
tation  to  take  her  into  his  arms  and  beg  her  to  relent,  to 
stick  by  him  for  a  while,  he  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his 
pockets. 

"I  couldn't  take  it,"  he  mumbled.  "Of  course,  that's 
luck.  I  put  up  that  asinine  performance  to-night  because  I 
saw  it  was  the  only  way  of  letting  Belleville  know  that  I 
was  desperate  for  a  job.  And  the  only  person  who  took  me 
seriously  made  me  an  offer  that  I  can't  possibly  take." 

"You  mean  you  wouldn't  work  for  Bethel?" 

He  could  see  by  the  way  she  drew  away  from  him  that 
she  suspected  his  incompetence  again. 


MONKEY  ON  A  STICK  95 

"Mother  has  raised  an  awful  row.  She  says  she'd  rather 
see  me  dead  than  in  vaudeville." 

"Oh,  yes.  I  forgot  about  her."  Consie  stood  looking  at 
the  toe  of  her  small  satin  slipper. 

"You  won't  lose  faith  in  me,  Consie  ?"  he  blurted. 

"I  told  you  before,  Andy,  that  I'd  wait,"  she  assured  him. 
"And  do  you  know,  somehow,  this  fool  performance  to 
night  has  increased  my  faith  in  you?" 

She  was  gone  before  Andy  could  say  another  word.  He 
had  a  wild  impulse  to  pursue  her,  to  try  to  argue  it  out. 
In  fact,  he  was  throwing  on  his  coat  to  follow  some  such 
vague  programme  when  the  door  opened  unceremoniously 
and  Sam  Bethel  walked  in. 

"Well,  Andy,"  he  wheezed  in  his  cheerful  manner.  "I've 
come  to  get  my  package.  And  something  tells  me  I  haven't 
made  such  a  bum  bargain." 

"Sam,"  said  Andy,  taking  the  little  man  by  the  lapel  of 
his  coat,  "I  wish  I  had  been  in  earnest.  There's  nothing  in 
the  world  I'd  like  better  than  taking  your  two  hundred  a 
week,  but " 

"Look  here!  Wasn't  that  proposition  on  the  square?" 
The  manager's  face  grew  red  with  indignation. 

"Well,  you  see,  my  mother — she's  rather  old-fashioned  in 
her  ideas,  and  I  don't  think  she'd  stand  for  my  going  on 
the  vaudeville  stage." 

"Vaudeville  stage!"  spluttered  Sam.  "Who  the  devil 
wants  you  to  go  on  the  vaudeville  stage?" 

"Why,  don't  you?" 

"Hell,  no !     I  want  you  for  a  lawyer." 

"A  which?" 

"Lawyer.  I've  chucked  Gas  Cole  over  the  rail  and  I'll 
never  be  seen  in  that  morgue  again.  I  watched  your  work 
to-night,  and  it's  just  the  ticket.  Nerve !  Say,  you'd  comb 
the  fleas  out  of  a  Bengal  tiger.  And  I  want  your  services 
before  February  so  that  we  can  get  that  chimp  suit  into  the 


96  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

papers  by  the  time  my  new  Marathon  Theatre  opens  in  St. 
Louis." 

"Excuse  me  a  minute.    I  want  to  tell  my  wife." 

And  Sam  Bethel  didn't  see  Andy  again  until  ten  o'clock 
next  morning,  when  the  contract  was  signed. 

That  evening  the  widow  Hanovan,  sitting  stiffly  among 
"real  lace"  mats  and  the  Warwick  and  Stanley  silver,  enter 
tained  a  vaudeville  manager  at  high  tea.  It  was  wonderful 
to  see  how  well  they  both  behaved.  Possibly  the  fact  that 
a  distinguished  Corporation  Lawyer  and  his  wife  were  also 
present  might  have  had  a  neutralising  effect.  Then,  too, 
there  was  the  bust  of  Chief  Justice  Warwick,  taking  in  every, 
word  that  was  said.  It  was  a  very  helpful  evening  for  all 
parties  concerned. 


Ill 

PEACHES  AND  CREAM 


YOU  would  know  the  King  of  Spain,  would  you  not?" 
Nimbly  Count  Francisco  Miguel  de  Llargo  y  Jimi- 
nez  plunged  his  aristocratic  right  hand  up  to  the  wrist 
watch  into  an  inside  pocket  and  brought  out  a  photograph. 
This  he  placed  deferentially  under  the  wide-eyed,  pink  and 
white    face   across    the   table.     Lora   Hollis   drew   in   her 
breath  and  gazed,  all  dazzled,  upon  the  likeness.     In  the 
good-humoured,  loose-jowled  Hapsburg  features  she  recog 
nised  Alfonzo,  lord  of  Castile  and  Aragon. 

"How  perfectly,  perfectly  wonderful !"  she  told  him  in 
her  infantile  voice.  She  was  glad  that  Tanquay's  fashion 
able  orchestra  had  stopped  playing  for  a  moment,  so  they 
could  pitch  their  conversation  to  a  confidential  key.  Again 
she  took  in  Alfonzo's  scraggly  smile,  blazoned  above  with 
towers  and  lions.  It  was  as  though  she  had  been  introduced 
already  to  this  nice,  kind  king;  and  below  the  picture,  boy 
ishly  scrawled,  she  read  the  royal  message  which  served  to 
establish  the  handsome  Spaniard  firmly  in  her  regard: 

"Felicidad,  mi  Francisco ! 
Siempre  su  amigo, 

Alfonzo." 

"You  do  know  him  awfully  well,  don't  you !"  she  chirped. 

Being,  by  his  own  acknowledgment,  an  envoy  extraordi 
nary  from  a  foreign  court,  Count  Francisco  received  the 
compliment  with  the  repression  proper  to  ambassadors.  His 
long  olive  face,  which  somehow  reminded  Lora  of  a  beauti- 

97 


98  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

~ " ^ •—^— — •! 

fully  decorated  egg,  showed  no  expression,  save  that  of  his 
agate-coloured  eyes,  which  drooped  languidly  as  he  reached 
across  for  the  photograph. 

"You  must  remember,  Senora,  that  the  house  of  Llargo  y 
Jiminez  has  been  long  associated  with  the  court  of  Spain." 

"Oh,  yes."  He  had  said  that  to  her  several  times  during 
their  brief  but  miraculously  growing  acquaintanceship.  And 
now  again  he  was  launching  forth  upon  a  pleasant  historical 
voyage  which,  although  it  conveyed  a  fascinatingly  regal  im 
pression  to  Lora,  yet  confused  her  with  its  proud  allusions 
and  hard  foreign  names.  It  was  always  difficult  for  her 
quaint  little  mind  to  concentrate  on  anything.  Tanquay's 
orchestra  was  making  a  great  to  do  over  the  Humoresque, 
and  Lora's  thoughts  went  skipping  amiably  and  aimlessly. 

It  gave  Lora  a  pleasurable  thrill  to  tell  herself  again  that 
this  handsome  foreigner  was  a  count  in  his  own  country. 
The  portrait  of  Alfonzo  brought  courts  and  crowns  very 
near ;  and  his  noble  mien  confirmed  the  patrician  ideal  which 
she  had  built  in  her  New  England  village  home  to  coincide 
with  all  the  books  she  had  borrowed  in  youth  from  the 
New  Balaam,  Connecticut,  public  library.  .  .  .  She  glanced 
nervously  around  the  room,  fearful  that  her  husband  might 
have  dropped  in  by  some  pernicious  chance.  Claymore 
would  be  furious,  of  course.  He  had  never  understood  her 
yearnings  to  break  into  the  society  column  .  .  .  and  he 
would  doubtless  scold  her  because  a  genuine  count,  ripe 
from  the  tree,  had  dropped  into  her  lap ! 

"But  ah,  Seiiora !"  the  dulcet  Francisco  had  gotten  some 
how  back  to  the  personal  note.  "It  is  refreshing  in  this  so 
strange  country  to  meet  one  lady  all  aristocratic  like  those 
ladies  of  that  Spain !" 

"Honest,  Count,"  she  protested  with  just  the  suggestion 
of  a  titter,  "I'm  not  so  much  on  family.  We're " 

It  was  on  her  tongue's  end  to  confess  that  her  father,  a 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  McClosky,  still  kept  a  hardware 
store  in  New  Balaam  and  that  her  husband,  a  divorced 
dentist,  had  plucked  her  from  a  front  porch  in  the  home 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  99 

town  and  that  she  had,  at  the  time  of  their  wedding,  re 
garded  Riverside  Drive  as  an  introduction  to  Golconda. 
Upon  second  thought  she  decided  not  to  drag  in  Claymore 
W.  Hollis,  the  able  treater  of  wealthy  teeth.  Clay  had 
caught  her  flirting  with  the  Count  the  night  before  at  a 
restaurant  dance  and  had  referred  to  the  interloper  as  a 
"Spiggoty." 

"I'm  only  a  country  girl,"  she  confessed  at  last. 

"Ah,  but  that  is  distinguished — the  great  haciendados!" 
He  sang  this  to  her  in  his  rich  notes,  apparently  determined 
to  confer  nobility  upon  the  house  of  McClosky.  She  re 
membered  having  heard  her  father  boast  his  descent  from  a 
king  named  Brian  Boru. 

Francisco  was  now  launching  floridly  upon  a  description 
of  hidalgos  he  had  known.  She  admired  his  eyes  as  he 
talked,  fascinating  jewels  that  could  contract  to  little  black 
shoe-buttons  or  be  soft  and  limpid  as  the  fallow  deer's.  It 
was  those  eyes  which  had  led  her  out  of  her  weak  discretion 
last  night  when  he  had  presented  his  graceful  impudence  and 
asked  her  to  dance  right  under  the  nose  of  her  husband. 
Her  acceptance,  of  course,  had  been  in  the  way  of  a  reprisal ; 
for  she  and  Clay  had  been  quarrelling  all  evening  about 
Winifred's  alimony,  now  due  again.  Ye  Muses,  how  this 
Count  could  dance !  He  had  led  her  into  shambling,  lan 
guid,  unconventional  steps  which  were  rapture  to  her  little 
joy-loving  soul.  And,  dancing,  he  had  explained  to  her 
how  the  step  she  followed  was  all  the  rage  in  court  circles 
of  Madrid,  how  he  was  in  America  on  a  secret  diplomatic 
mission,  how  he  had  escaped  for  the  evening  from  the 
padded  plush  palace  of  Mrs.  de  Flingpillar  Mawe  and  gone 
forth  alone,  like  Haroun  the  Good,  to  see  New  York  enjoy 
itself.  At  the  end  of  the  dance  he  had  whispered  "Tan- 
quay's  at  one"  and,  swooning  in  the  spell  of  imported 
Granada,  she  had  nodded  her  foolish  head. 

So  here  they  were;  and  Lora,  all  bound  round  with  a 
magic  string,  sat  wondering  what  this  fairy-book  prince 
wanted  with  the  likes  of  her. 


loo  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

The  Count,  meanwhile,  was  taking  full  advantage  of  his 
time,  speaking  English  fluently  with  a  Latin  gurgle. 

"As  His  Majesty,  the  King  of  Spain,  said  to  me  so  shortly 
before  I  boated  to  this  America,"  here  the  affable  grandee 
lowered  his  voice  to  a  pitch  of  reverence,  "  'Francisco,'  he 
said,  'there  is  a  distinction  to  the  American  woman !'  " 

"How — how  well  do  you  know  the  King?"  she  asked  at 
length. 

"Senora !"  Count  Francisco  Miguel  de  Llargo  y  Jiminez 
drew  the  royal  photograph  half  way  out  of  his  pocket.  It 
was  as  though  the  picture  were  about  to  bow  and  smile  and 
say,  "My  friend,  Francisco." 

The  Count  became  at  once  autobiographic.  He  had  been 
born  to  court  life.  The  house  of  Llargo  y  Jiminez  was  Ah ! 
so  influential !  Always  the  King's  superior  at  outdoor  sports, 
he  had  taught  the  game  of  marbles  to  his  royal  playmate. 
They  had  been  college  chums  at  Barcelona.  Later  they  had 
taken  up  aviation  together ;  and  when  the  young  King's  air 
plane  was  in  full  flight  over  the  Pyrenees  the  quick-witted 
Francisco,  who  occupied  the  extra  seat,  saw  in  a  flash  that 
the  King  had  fainted  at  the  wheel.  It  had  taken  but  an  in 
stant  for  the  lesser  lord  to  scramble  through  mid-air,  snatch 
the  controls  from  the  hand  of  the  swooning  monarch  .  .  . 

Lora  sat  giddy  with  the  picture  and  with  admiration  of 
this  lithe,  cat-like  aristocrat  who,  effeminate  in  appearance, 
yet  possessed  the  lion's  heart  in  the  face  of  danger. 

"It  was  natural,  then,  that  I  should  be  chosen  to  come  to 
Washington  with  the  mission,"  he  confessed  modestly. 

"What — just  what  is  this  mission?"  She  puckered  her 
fine  brows  and  tried  hard  to  concentrate  on  a  subject  which, 
she  felt  sure,  would  be  full  of  hard  words. 

The  Count  glanced  keenly  round  ere  he  leaned  far  over 
and  whispered. 

"To  arrange  the  new  Spanish  loan !" 

"Oh.     Is  Spain  doing  it  too?" 

"The  reasons  I  cannot  divulge,"  intimated  Francisco  mys- 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  101 

teriously.  "Perhaps  I  have  already  said  too  much.  But  I 
can  trust  in  the  Sefiora's  common  sense  ?" 

"I  suppose  so."  Lora  said  it  quaveringly.  To  be  ac 
cused  of  common  sense  was  as  novel  to  her,  perhaps,  as  to  be 
reminded  of  her  noble  birth  and  breeding.  But  her  mi 
raculously  growing  intimacy  with  this  diplomat  inspired  her 
with  a  flashing  hope.  Here  was  one  not  only  illustrious  in 
affairs  of  the  old  world,  but  courted  by  the  society  of  the 
new.  Poor  little  Lora  Hollis,  who  had  so  often  dragged 
her  husband  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  in  order  that 
she  might  gloat  from  afar  upon  the  bulging  tier  where 
basked  the  jewelled  great,  sat  here  en  tete-a-tcte  with  one 
who  could  be  master  of  them  all.  Her  surreptitious  lunch 
eon  with  the  Count  hadn't  seemed  quite  right  at  first.  But 
now,  at  one  stroke,  she  could  do  a  mighty  favour  for  her 
Clay.  He  was  always  mentally  comparing  her  with  the 
first  Mrs.  Hollis,  he  had  always  treated  her  as  an  expen 
sive,  adorable,  profligate  doll.  Now  he  should  see  what  the 
charm  and  beauty  which  had  made  woman  a  power  in  the 
court  of  Louis  XIV  could  do  for  an  ambitious  dentist  of 
Riverside  Drive. 

"It  must  be  wonderful  to  know  the  King  of  Spain,"  she 
came  rapidly  back  to  her  subject,  employing  her  most  in 
fantile  voice. 

"Ah,  Senora.  Kings  are  but  human.  It  is  the  common- 
popular  soul  of  Alfonzo  that  is  to  be  admired.  At  heart  he 
is  what  your  great  Wilson  calls  'Safe  from  Democracy.'  It 
would  be  so  easy  for  one  so  beautiful  like  you  to  be — 
what  you  call  ? — entirely  the  show  in  our  Court." 

"You  think  so?"  upspake  Lora,  brightening  visibly. 

"Seiiora,  I  will  tell  you  why  I  am  here  so  long  in  New 
York."  He  leaned  at  his  intimate  angle  and  his  eyes  came 
down  to  their  shoe-button  focus.  "It  is  Sefior  your  hus 
band  I  am  after." 

Lora  was  alarmed.  She  had  heard  that  these  Spaniards 
were  deadly  swordsmen  and  she  had  no  faith  in  her  Clay's 


102  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

ability  to  handle  any  weapon  more  deep-cutting  than  an 
electric  drill. 

"Your  husband  is  very  distinguished  dentist,  is  it  not?" 

"He's  one  of  the  best,"  she  responded  with  a  prompti 
tude  born  of  natural  pride. 

"I  will  tell  you  something  more,  Senora  Lora."  Consid 
ering  the  brevity  of  their  friendship,  his  address  seemed  just 
a  shade  familiar ;  but  there  were  garnet  sub-lights  in  his  re 
markable  eyes  and  his  voice  was  running  smoothly  like  a 
trickle  of  syrup  over  a  plateful  of  ripe  r's. 

"Last  night  when  I  was  so  bold  to  address  myself  to  your 
table  I  was  charmed  first  by  the  beauty — que  linda ! — "  He 
said  the  word  thrillingly.  "Then  I  was  brave  because  you 
dance  so  well  like  the  Castillian  feet !  But  must  I  confess 
it?  Your  husband  was  entirely  observed  by  me  all  the 
time." 

"Clay's  jealous,"  she  informed  him. 

"Jealous!  That  is  nothing."  Between  an  aristocratic 
thumb  and  finger  he  snapped  away  the  memory  of  a  hun 
dred  duels.  "I  do  not  watch  men  for  that.  The  reason 
why  I  keep  my  eye  over  your  husband  wherever  he  appear 
is  far  more  international  than  jealousy." 

"Well,  what  is  the  reason?"  she  asked  obligingly  like  an 
end-man. 

"Spain." 

He  spoke  the  monosyllable  and  edged  a  little  closer,  his 
slender  fingers  bent  back  in  their  pressure  upon  the  table 
cloth. 

"It  was  part  of  my  instructions  before  arriving  to  this 
America,"  he  told  her  in  a  still,  slow  voice,  "to  watch  out 
for  one  distinguished  scientist  who  would  come  with  me  to 
be  Court  Dentist  to  the  King." 

Ah,  she  knew  it !  From  the  first  she  had  suspected  that 
this  romantic  stranger  had  something  up  his  sleeve  for  her 
and  hers!  Court  Dentist  of  Spain!  She  grew  suddenly 
light-headed  as  under  the  influence  of  her  husband's  laugh- 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  103 

ing  gas.  And  poor,  blind  Clay  had  sneered  and  called  this 
man  a  "Spigotty." 

"Does  the  King  of  Spain  need  a  dentist?"  she  at  last 
found  breath  to  ask. 

"But  that  is  apparent,  Seiiora."  Again  he  brought  the 
photograph  half  out  of  his  pocket,  revealing  the  irregularity 
of  the  monarch's  smile.  "His  Majesty  suffers  the  intensity 
— his  malformation  you  will  notice.  He  has  the  tooth  of 
the  Hapsburgs.  And  when  Count  Andreo  de  Todos  los 
Toros  died  recently  he  left  poor  Alfonzo  quite  desolate — 
spesarado — because  Count  Andreo  had  always  been  such 
fine  dental  scientist.  Count  Andreo,  you  understand,  was 
American,  Andrew  Kelley  by  name.  The  title  was  given 
by  distinguished  service.  The  King  depend  very  affection 
ate  upon  Americans  for — what  you  call  it  ?" 

Count  Francisco  pantomimically  drew  the  point  of  his 
long  forefinger  around  his  gums. 

"Bridge  work,"  Lora  supplied.  A  rapidly  expanding 
thought  was  bumping  the  walls  of  her  narrow  little  brain. 

"Do  you  think  my  husband  runs  a  chance  for  the  job — 
the  appointment?" 

"My  recommendation  can  do  much,  Seiiora,"  he  informed 
her  under  the  fire  of  his  sombre  eyes. 

"And  will  they  make  a  Count  of  him?" 

"Probably.     That  is  to  be  seen." 

"Oh."  She  eyed  him  narrowly.  His  noble  honour,  no 
doubt,  prevented  his  promising  too  much;  but  his  manner 
conveyed  the  hope  that  her  Clay  could  look  forward  to  rapid 
advancement  and  titles. 

"Would— would  I  be  in  the  Court,  too  ?" 

"Segura!  The  lady  of  the  Court  dentist  must  hold  the 
official  rank  of  Dentina." 

That  settled  the  matter  once  and  for  all  in  her  mind. 

"I'll  speak  to  Claymore  as  soon  as  I  get  home,"  she  eagerly 
assured  him. 

"Not  so  fast,  Senora !  In  such  work  of  la  diplomicm  we 
must  not  shove  too  many  matters  altogether.  And  yet 


104  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

everything  must  be  done  swiftly,  because  I  sail  for  Spain 
to-morrow." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  quite  sincerely.  This  miraculous 
contact  with  nobility  was  more  thrilling  than  anything  that 
had  happened  to  her  since  the  dentist's  whirlwind  courtship 
in  New  Balaam  three  years  ago. 

"This  matter  has  held  me  here  a  week  longer  than  I 
should,"  he  went  on  rapidly.  "I  have  had  to  consider  so 
many  names.  Dr.  Anderson  and  Dr.  Fortesque  were  highly 
recommended " 

"They're  not  nearly  so  smart  as  Clay,"  she  broke  in  men 
daciously,  remembering  with  what  respect  her  husband  often 
spoke  of  the  above-mentioned  lights  of  dentistry. 

"So  I  have  found,"  he  assured  her  with  a  wise  smile. 
"And  it  is  so  that  I  have  come  to  you  for  a  little  help  in  the 
matter." 

"What  can  I  do  ?"  she  was  ail-too  ready  to  offer. 

"It  may  sound  a  foolish  matter."  The  orchestra  had  set 
in  again  and  Francisco  must  needs  tune  his  notes  skilfully 
to  a  confidential  pitch  just  above  the  hair-cutting  motif  from 
Samson  and  Delilah. 

"I  must  have  the  guarantee  before  noon  to-morrow." 
1     "What  guarantee  ?"  she  chirped. 

"Of  course  you  would  not  understand  the  usage,"  he  be 
gan  in  a  tone  which  conveyed  a  kindly  toleration.  "In  such 
cases  it  is  customary  for  the  applicant  to  make  a  small  de 
posit — to  pledge  good  faith,  you  know  ?  The  Spanish  Gov 
ernment  pass  his  name  or  reject  it — the  money  is  then  re 
turned  to  the  applicant.  It  is  old-fashioned  Spanish  form." 

This  was  the  first  fly  that  had  buzzed  into  her  ointment 
of  romance.  Dr.  Claymore  W.  Hollis  was  getting  tighter 
and  tighter  in  money  matters,  poor  dear,  and  he  had  cursed 
aloud,  for  the  first  time  in  her  presence,  when  the  bill  had 
come  in  last  month  from  the  Boew  Peepe  Shoppe,  that  fas 
cinatingly  misspelled  trap  for  feminine  vanities.  There 
would  be  another  bill  from  that  same  source  arriving,  per 
haps,  to-day.  Also,  that  disgusting  Winifred's  must  be  paid. 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM 


How  could  she  ask  Clay  for  more  money,  even  to  buy  a 
royal  ribbon  for  his  shirt-front? 

"How  much  will  it  cost?"  she  asked  in  her  crudest  up 
state  voice. 

"A  very  little."  The  vulgarity  of  the  question  seemed 
to  offend,  for  he  twitched  slightly.  "A  deposit  of  fifteen 
hundred  pesetas  —  fifteen  hundred  dollars  —  will  be  much 
sufficient." 

Her  hands  dropped  to  her  side.  He  might  as  well  be 
asking  Claymore  for  the  full  sum  of  the  Liberty  Loan. 

"You  couldn't  make  it  a  little  less,  could  you?"  she  was 
so  bold  as  to  query  at  last. 

"Senora!  I  am  assured  that  fifteen  hundred  dollars  is 
very  small  to  ask  for  so  great  honour.  Less,  I  am  afraid, 
would  look  —  what  you  call  him?  —  stingy  to  the  Court 
Chamberlain  who  would  handle  the  deposit." 

"I  might  possibly  be  able  to  raise  a  thousand,"  she  tem 
porised,  embarrassed  to  be  haggling  with  this  fine  spirit. 

"Bueno  !"  he  shrugged  all  the  way  from  his  slender  waist 
line  to  the  tips  of  his  ears.  "It  is  a  small  matter.  It  can't 
be  less  than  fifteen  hundred  dollars.  But  I  tell  you  !  You 
bring  one  thousand.  I  will  put  in  five  hundred  from  my 
own  account." 

"Oh,  Count  !"     His  generosity  struck  her  dumb. 

"It  is  my  desire  to  see  your  husband  promoted  to  Count," 
he  assured  her  with  one  of  his  languid  smiles. 

Lora  Hollis  pushed  back  her  chair  and  began  putting  on 
her  gloves.  She  was  thinking  rapidly,  if  not  deeply.  She 
might  raise  part  of  the  money  on  her  fur  coat  and  some  of 
her  gowns.  No.  It  must  be  her  jewels.  The  baroness  of 
romance  always  pawns  her  jewels,  never  her  fur  coat. 

"Of  course,  I  could  go  to  Claymore  and  explain  — 

"No,  no,  no!"  The  negatives  came  rapidly  like  bullets 
from  a  Lewis  gun.  "Your  question  is  natural,  but  it  would 
not  do.  Let  us  keep  the  happiness  from  him  as  one  keep  — 
what  I  say?  —  Christmas  present.  I  can  only  recommend 


106  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

his  name,  you  understand.  Suppose  the  King  do  not  ac 
cept  it?" 

Lora  had  never  thought  of  that. 

"This  would  make — how  you  say? "  He  went  dex 
terously  through  the  motions  of  tying  a  knot — "out  of  sim 
ple  diplomatic  situation.  I  confide  in  you,  Senora.  Let 
us  keep  it  close  beside  us  until  the  appointment  is  an 
nounced." 

Lora  took  her  beaded  bag  from  the  extra  chair  and  arose. 

"I'll— I'll  see  what  I  can  do,"  she  faltered. 

"Could  I  have  the  honour  again  to-morrow?" 

"If  I  can  raise  the  money  I'll  be  here  at  noon " 

"If  I  might  ask,"  he  persisted  courteously,  "could  it  be 
at  the  Claremont  on  the  Hudson?  That  is  a  more  out-of- 
place  rest  and  you  have  the  intellect  to  know  how  valuable 
is  secrecy." 

He  took  her  hand  as  they  parted  in  the  foyer.  She  was 
puzzled  as  to  just  what  he  intended  doing  with  that  hand, 
as  he  didn't  shake  it,  but  continued  slowly  to  raise  it  toward 
his  chin. 

"Don't !"  she  gasped,  snatching  it  away.  She  had  read  in 
delightful  books  about  courtly  hand-kissings ;  but  con 
fronted  by  actuality,  she  blushed  to  the  roots  of  her  yellow 
hair  and  glanced  hastily  through  the  glass  partition.  She 
was  horribly  nervous,  conscious  that  all  New  York  must 
be  looking  at  her. 

She  bade  her  Count  a  hasty  au  revoir  and  bounded  forth 
to  the  Hollis  town-car  which  the  carriage  man  had  called 
for  her. 

II 

The  little  car  nosed  its  way  up  Fifth  Avenue  toward 
Riverside  Drive  and  the  Gigantic  Apartments  where  the 
Hollises  showed  an  ornate  front  to  the  world.  The  Gigan 
tic  was  symbolic  of  Lora  and  her  attitude  toward  the  life 
she  had  wheedled  out  of  her  middle-aged  husband.  Since 
the  day  when  the  sentimental  Dr.  Hollis  had  whisked  her 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  107 


off  the  McClosky  porch  in  New  Balaam  and  transported 
her  on  a  magic  carpet  to  the  Gigantic  she  had  eaten  into 
luxury  like  the  graceful,  insatiable  pink  and  white  weevil 
that  she  was.  Never  having  had  much  to  spend  before,  the 
Drive  had  been  overwhelming  to  her  until  she  got  used  to 
it.  To  put  on  an  evening  gown  almost  every  night  and 
be  whirled  beside  her  white-fronted  husband  to  a  fashion 
able  cafe  had  been,  at  first,  intoxication  enough  for  her. 
Then  her  silly  head  had  cooled  and  she  had  cast  her  eyes  in 
a  fatal  direction — eastward  across  the  roofs  toward  the 
other  side  of  Central  Park.  Why  didn't  she  get  her  picture 
in  the  paper  or  her  name  among  those  present  at  the  De 
Flingpillar  Mawe  fancy  dress  ball?  It  couldn't  be  because 
her  Clay  was  divorced.  That  was  quite  the  thing,  she  had 
learned  from  Sunday  supplements  .  .  .  then  vaguely  she 
began  associating  their  obscurity  with  Winifred  and  that 
awful  monthly  alimony. 

A  little  over  three  years  ago  Dr.  Claymore  W.  Hollis, 
then  a  prosperous  dentist  with  a  past,  had  whirled  through 
New  Balaam  on  a  fishing  trip,  had  paused  to  mend  a  leaky 
tire  and  stayed  to  soothe  a  broken  heart.  From  the  honey- 
suckled  depths  of  the  McClosky  porch  Lora  had  smiled 
upon  his  rakish  grey  roadster  with  the  result  that  he  had 
spun  her  for  two  excited  hours  round  the  countryside  and 
they  had  returned  in  time  for  strawberry  shortcake  at  the 
McClosky  table.  The  temperamental  dentist  fished  very 
little  that  summer,  because  he  himself  was  caught.  About 
the  time  Mr.  McClosky  began  referring  to  the  able  Dr. 
Hollis  as  "Lora's  young  man"  New  Balaam  started  specu 
lating  on  the  date  of  the  wedding.  No  one  denied  that 
Lora  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  town ;  she  wasn't  brainy — in 
fact  local  gallantry  had  referred  to  her  more  than  once  as 
a  "nut" ;  but  there  are  nuts  which  give  anodyne  to  unhappy 
men. 

When  Claymore  W.  Hollis  put  the  question  Lora  had 
giggled  lightly — a  way  she  had  when  under  the  stress  of 
strong  emotion.  It  was  as  though  the  Secretary  of  the 


io8  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Treasury  had  opened  all  his  money  vaults  and  handed  her 
a  shovel.  After  it  was  all  settled  her  dentist  had  cleared 
his  throat  and  further  explained: 

"It's  only  fair  to  tell  you.     I've  been  divorced." 

"It  was  her  fault,  wasn't  it  ?"  she  had  asked  promptly. 

"It  wasn't  anybody's  fault,  I  guess,"  he  had  subtly  in 
formed  her.  She  was  a  simple  village  maiden  then,  and 
she  had  thought  him  terrifically  intricate  and  worldly.  "I 
think  we  must  have  outgrown  one  another.  She  was  cut 
out  for  a  business  woman;  not  the  type  for  a  masterful 
man.  And  when  she  asked  for  her  freedom — well,  I  paid 
her  way  to  Reno.  You  understand,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  Lora  had  replied,  thinking  that  fashion 
able  men  like  Claymore  must  require  more  divorces  than 
common  folks. 

"Was  she  pretty?"  Such  a  question,  of  course,  would 
come  next  in  the  feminine  mind. 

"You  see  she'd  be  considerably  older  than  you,"  he  had 
parried.  "She  never  could  have  been  like  you." 

In  the  fair  face  of  Lora  he  might  have  been  forgiven  a 
greater  disloyalty  to  his  earlier  infelicity.  The  county- 
wide  renown  of  her  beauty  had  driven  two  or  three  young 
men  to  drink  and  at  least  one  to  prohibition. 

"Well."  Lora  had  tried  to  dismiss  the  former  wife  at 
the  end  of  Claymore's  first  confession.  "She  won't  bother 
us,  I  guess." 

"She  won't,"  he  had  agreed  somewhat  bitterly.  "But  her 
lawyers  will." 

Lora  had  gaped  blankly  at  this  and  her  lover  had 
specified. 

"Winifred's  alimony  has  to  be  paid  on  the  first  of  every 
month." 

That  was  the  first  time  the  other  woman's  name  had 
been  pronounced  to  her,  and  through  the  ensuing  years 
she  had  associated  the  disagreeable  combination — Winifred 
and  alimony. 

So  they  had  married  and  gone  straight  to  New  York. 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  109 

Dr.  Hollis  took  his  second  wife  to  the  pompous,  near-onyx 
foyer  of  the  Gigantic  and  didn't  explain  to  her,  at  first,  how 
the  rent  and  the  fixtures  and  the  added  servants  were  some 
what  more  than  he  could  afford ;  that  the  late  Winifred  had 
been  contented  with  an  old-fashioned  apartment  on  West 
End  Avenue.  Lora's  greed  for  luxury  seemed  to  strike 
the  fires  of  profligacy  from  him.  He  had  seemed  always 
eager  to  spend  money  on  her;  and  she  had  always  kept  at 
least  a  nose  ahead  of  him  in  the  dangerous  race.  She  was 
raised  in  New  Balaam  where  the  best  restaurant  dinner 
cost  forty  cents  a  plate.  It  toolc  her  less  than  a  year  to 
complain  properly  over  the  quality  of  food  in  a  Fifth  Ave 
nue  establishment  where  a  little  affair  for  four  came  to 
upward  of  forty  dollars.  She  graduated  from  home-made 
into  tailor-made,  from  dresses  into  frocks.  Everything  was 
on  the  grand  scale  whose  limit  is  bankruptcy;  and  Lora's 
all  too  doting  husband  had  aged  visibly  in  the  last  few 
months. 

Lora's  small  mind  had  learned  the  arts  of  wheedling  and 
of  sulking.  Schooled  in  the  tactful  science  of  teeth,  Dr. 
Hollis  had  been  patient.  When  she  cried  for  the  moon  he 
promised  to  hire  a  taxi-plane  and  bring  down  the  shining 
bauble.  She  didn't  see  why  their  names  never  got  into  the 
papers.  She  didn't  see  why  he  didn't  trade  in  his  old  car 
for  a  1918  model.  She  didn't  see  why  that  woman  Wini 
fred  should  have  her  alimony  so  promptly  on  the  first  of 
every  month.  It  was  only  the  mention  of  Winifred  that 
caused  Hollis  to  bridle.  Lora  suspected  that  he  cared  more 
for  her  than  he  pretended.  He  was  so  touchy  about  that 
alimony  which,  month  by  month,  Lora  saw  slipping  beyond 
the  reach  of  her  slender,  grasping  fingers.  Then  there  was 
a  letter  which  she  had  shaken  one  day  out  of  an  old  desk. 
Her  flighty  memory  had  retained  the  words,  after  innumer 
able  readings: 

"Dear  old  Boy: 

"I  understand  We're  not  going  to  spoil  things  by  a  lot  of 
recriminations.  I've  got  my  work  to  do  and  you've  got  yours. 


1 10  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


That  never  occurred  to  you,  did  it — my  work  ?  For  heaven's 
sake,  be  happy  and  sensible.  You  were  never  cut  out  to  live 
with  your  intellectual  equal.  You've  taken  your  daily  without 
thanks.  What  you  want  is  peaches  and  cream.  Don't  marry 
the  kind  that  thinks.  Choose  one  that's  fluffy — one  that  al 
ways  wants  you  to  buy  her  something,  that  keeps  you  in  a 
stew  all  the  time.  If  I  hadn't  tried  to  economise  and  keep 
something  ahead  for  you,  I  verily  believe  we'd  be  cooing  still. 
Take  care  of  yourself,  old  man — and  pick  out  a  girl  who  needs 
taking  care  of.  Do  you  know,  that  idea  makes  me  just  a  little 
jealous? 

"WINIFRED." 


"She  talks  like  his  mother,"  was  Lora's  first  spiteful 
thought,  to  which  she  added,  "I  never  heard  of  a  mother's 
demanding  alimony." 

Since  then  she  had  been  on  one  splendid  spending  con 
test  with  the  phantom  Winifred.  About  alimony- time  each 
month  she  had  entered  upon  a  career  of  profligacy.  Of 
course,  there  comes  an  end  to  every  carouse.  When 
Madame  Florence  had  come  to  town  and  opened  up  the 
frivolously  misspelled  "Bowe  Peepe  Shoppe"  in  the  lower 
Thirties  Lora  had  descended  thereon  and  outstripped  all 
previous  records.  Claymore  W.  Hollis  had  looked  over  the 
bill,  blanched  visibly,  groaned  and  sat  down. 

"I  suppose  you  want  to  save  some  more  for  old  Wini 
fred  !"  she  had  twitted. 

That  had  been  last  month  and  another  bill  would  be  com 
ing  soon.  To-day  as  Lora  got  out  at  the  Gigantic  and 
entered  the  ornate  splendours  of  her  apartment  she  knew 
too  well  how  useless  it  would  be  to  ask  him  for  the  money 
she  must  have  before  to-morrow  noon.  However,  des 
peration  makes  heroes  out  of  fools  and  vice  versa.  She  de 
termined  on  one  last  try. 

At  the  telephone  in  her  rather  staring  grey  and  blue  bed 
room  she  waited  a  nervous  while  for  Clay  to  answer.  She 
knew  that  it  made  him  furious  to  be  interrupted  in  the  midst 
of  a  dental  operation. 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  ill 

"Yes?"  came  his  voice  at  last,  gentle  and  cutting  like 
one  of  his  fine  instruments  of  torment. 

"This  is  Lora,  dear,"  she  began  in  her  most  wheedling 
tone.  "Sweetheart,  I  can't  tell  you  everything  at  once. 
But  I  wonder  if  you  could  do  me  a  really  truly  great  big 
favour." 

"But,  darling,  there's  a  man  waiting  in  the  chair  with 
his  mouth  propped  open  and " 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Dodo !"  This  was  her  pettest  of  all  pet 
names.  "It  will  only  take  a  minute  to  tell  you  what  I 
want." 

"Can't  it  wait  till  to-night  ?" 

"Oh,  no.  That  would  be  awfully  too  late.  Listen, 
Dodo." 

"I'm  listening." 

"Can't  you  put  off  that  old  alimony  just  this  once  and 
let  me  have  the  money?" 

"Oh,  dearie,  please!"  She  knew  then  that  it  was  just  as 
good  as  lost.  "Do  you  want  me  to  go  to  jail?" 

"I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with  it,"  she  sulked  by 
wire. 

"Now,  Lora,  if  you'll  ask  anything  reasonable " 

She  banished  him  by  the  simple  expedient  of  banging 
the  receiver  on  the  hook.  No  good  trying  that  tack,  she 
thought  indignantly ;  and  she  wished  she  had  told  her  hate 
ful  Clay  just  what  she  wanted  the  money  for  and  let  him 
make  the  most  of  it. 

"Of  all  the  old  things !"  she  sniffed  as  she  whisked  across 
the  room  and  seated  herself  at  her  fussy  little  dressing 
table.  She  stared  into  the  mirror  and  was  dissatisfied  with 
the  peevish  mood  which  had  roiled  her  usually  placid 
beauty.  She  began  to  smile,  vacantly  as  she  always  did  in 
contemplation  of  herself;  lovingly  she  patted  her  strands 
of  honey-coloured  hair  and  with  a  slender  forefinger  out 
lined  her  fine,  yellowish  eyebrows,  her  wide  eyes  reflecting 
crystal  from  the  glass. 

The  room  in  which  she  sat  was  a  lavish  affair,  panelled 


112  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

in  grey  with  spotty  blue  medallions  here  and  there ;  an  ap 
proximated  Adam  interior  which  a  decorator  named  Ad- 
delheimer  had  done  for  her  in  imitation  of  a  musical  com 
edy  setting  she  once  admired.  Lora  loved  this  room,  which 
was  superficial,  satiny,  modish,  somewhat  shoddy — it  ex 
pressed  her  with  a  subtlety  it  could  never  claim  for  itself. 

Turning  the  peach-blow  of  her  cheeks  from  side  to  sideA 
she  admired  and,  admiring,  dreamed.  When  she  became 
Dentina  of  the  Court  of  Spain,  she  thought  with  a  sudden 
return  of  gaiety,  she  should  have  a  tiara  to  wear  on  state 
occasions.  Reflectively  she  picked  two  rhinestone  combs 
from  the  tray  in  front  of  her  and  stuck  them,  tiara-fashion, 
into  her  brilliant  hair.  She  took  a  queenly  pose,  turning 
her  little  empty  head  this  way  and  that  with  the  effect  that 
she  did  look  queenly;  or  like  a  naughty,  spoiled  princess 
about  to  do  the  wrongest  thing  that  ever  she  knew  how. 

She  sighed.  There  was  no  good  telling  him  what  she 
wanted  the  money  for.  It  would  be  just  like  poor  old 
darling,  grumpy  Clay  to  laugh  at  her  for  her  folly;  when 
the  summons  from  a  royal  court  came  to  him,  it  would  be 
her  time  to  laugh !  Thus  she  constructed  her  Spanish  cloud- 
castles  as  she  went  rummaging  for  valuables  to  pawn. 

Lora  opened  the  top  drawer  and  brought  out  her  jewel- 
box.  It  was  a  sizeable  casket,  finished  in  gold  wash.  The 
trinkets  she  produced  from  its  satiny  depths  made  quite  a 
double  handful;  a  string  of  pearls  which  looked  genuine 
and  had  cost  her  forty  dollars ;  some  seed  peari  ear-rings 
which  Clay  had  inherited  from  some  of  the  female  Hollises 
and  had  handed  over  to  tier;  a  garishly  set  ring  with  a 
large  ruby  and  several  small  diamonds;  a  pearl  and  sap 
phire  bar  pin;  a  pair  of  ear-rings  set  with  large  pearls — 
genuine;  an  elaborate  platinum  filigree  brooch  with  several 
inferior  diamonds ;  a  corporal's  guard  of  insignificant  pins. 
Surely,  thought  Lora,  as  she  weighed  the  baubles,  a  few  of 
these  would  bring  a  thousand  dollars  and  Clay  could  be 
evaded  until  they  were  redeemed. 

She  remembered  a  pretty  pawnshop  she  had  often  passed 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  113 

on  her  trips  to  Mme.  Florence's  "Bowe  Peepe  Shoppe." 
She  liked  this  place,  because  it  had  a  shiny  front  like  a  real 
jeweller's  and  there  were  no  revolvers,  razors,  or  musical 
instruments  scattered  among  the  tidy  rows  of  gems  dis 
played  in  the  window.  She  was  sure  the  keeper  of  the 
place  must  be  a  nice  man  at  heart,  no  slovenly  Shylock  who 
would  grind  the  face  of  the  poor.  Therefore  she  ordered 
up  her  car,  decided  on  her  small  hat  with  the  golden  feather 
and  set  forth  upon  her  first  venture  into  finance. 

She  had  the  chauffeur  let  her  off  at  the  Waldorf  Astoria ; 
a  new-born  worldly  cunning  told  her  that  it  would  never 
do  to  have  a  servant  of  her  household  see  her  entering 
a  pawnshop.  She  walked  down  the  Avenue  to  Thirty- 
second  Street,  turned  in  half  a  block  and  was  well  in  sight 
of  her  destination  when  her  joy-devouring  mind  was  again 
turned  from  its  purpose.  She  was  standing  in  front  of 
one  of  those  small,  coquettish  store-fronts  which  the  af 
fected,  exotic  whim  of  Fifth  Avenue  renders  profitable. 
It  was  a  Dresden  shepherdess  of  a  store-front,  its  bay 
window  latticed  with  white  sashes,  blue  forget-me-nots 
painted  on  the  cornices,  a  useless  brass  knocker  on  the 
white-enamelled  door;  and  over  all  on  a  long  white  sign 
board,  lettered  antiquely  in  Colonial  type,  the  following 
label: 

Ye  BOWE  PEEPE  SHOPPE. 

There  were  only  two  o-r  three  things  in  the  window  be 
hind  the  white-sashed  panes.  Such  a  sport-coat  as  Psyche 
might  have  worn  for  the  rough  work  of  chasing  butterflies ; 
a  doll  dressed  in  the  period  of  Louis  XIV,  her  skirts  de 
signed  as  curtains  for  the  unsightly  telephone;  and  on  a 
gawky,  violet-enamelled  spindle  one  coquettishly-brimmed 
white  hat,  all  dripping  down  the  sides  with  paradise  plumes. 

"The  dear !"  whispered  Lora,  her  mind  for  the  moment 
off  the  floating  courts  of  Spain.  That  was  the  hat  she  had 
been  looking  for,  the  one  which  perfidious  Mme.  Florence 
had  faithfully  promised  to  show  her! 


114  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

r"""^  —^••••••^^^•••^ 

But  duty  like  a  stern  policeman  came  and  took  her  by  the 
elbow.  Lora  stopped  but  to  sigh  again  ere  she  passed  on. 

There  stood  a  bald-headed  albino  behind  the  counter  of 
the  pretty  pawn-shop,  a  half  block  nearer  Broadway.  He 
focussed  his  pink  eyes  to  a  look  of  hostility  as  she  offered 
her  spoil,  at  which  he  squinted  carefully.  He  was  a  dis 
agreeably  pink  person,  suggestive  of  rubber.  First  he 
sneered  at  the  seed  pearl  ear-rings  and  offered  to  buy  them 
outright  for  ten  dollars  cash.  He  flattered  the  ruby  ring 
with  several  of  his  squints;  the  stone  was  large  and  had, 
as  Lora  knew,  cost  Clay  dearly  for  his  bad  taste.  Finally 
the  pink  pawnbroker  weighed  her  entire  collection  of  trin 
kets  in  his  chubby  hand.  Spitefully  he  glared  at  them 
through  his  magnifying  glass  and  at  last,  in  the  voice  of 
Simon  Legree,  spat  out  his  verdict: 

"Six  hundred  for  the  lot !" 

"That's  ridiculous,"  she  protested,  and  would  have  ex 
plained  further  had  not  the  roseate  monster  glared  at  her 
with  the  eyes  of  a  venomous  rabbit  and  sniffed : 

"Six  hundred  is  too  much !" 

She  made  a  poor  show  of  pleading.  The  pawnbroker 
gave  her  a  rubber  smile  and  began  directing  his  greenish 
assistant  in  the  work  of  arranging  a  new  row  of  bejewelled 
cards  on  a  nickelled  rod.  It  was  getting  on  toward  five 
o'clock  and  Lora,  unfamiliar  with  the  business  hours  of 
pawnbrokers,  had  a  panicky  feeling  that  they  were  closing 
for  the  night. 

"All  right,"  said  she  at  last,  acknowledging  defeat. 

He  made  her  out  a  deck  of  little  cards  and  shoved  out 
a  pile  of  bills  with  a  gesture  that  was  like  a  curse.  It  was 
a  dear  price  she  was  paying  for  nobility ;  and  as  she  walked 
dazedly  back  toward  Fifth  Avenue,  her  whole  being  was 
embittered  by  the  thought  that  she  still  lacked  four  hun 
dred  dollars  of  Count  Francisco's  reasonable  request.  Old 
Winifred's  alimony  would  more  than  make  up  the  sum,  she 
reflected,  and  was  like  to  burst  into  tears  as  she  dismissed 
the  thought. 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  115 

Presently  her  walk  got  her  as  far  as  the  Bowe  Peepe 
Shoppe.  Somehow  the  act  of  gazing  through  the  latticed 
window  upon  that  dripping  paradise  plume  had  a  settling 
effect  upon  her  nerves.  She  had  a  large  sum  in  her  beaded 
bag  and,  since  the  Spanish  castles  were  gone  a-glimmering, 
she  saw  no  valid  reason  why  she  shouldn't  have  the  hat. 
Peeping  over  the  ornate  back-board  of  the  window,  she 
could  see  the  comforting,  substantial  figure  of  Madame 
Florence,  passing  back  and  forth  in  the  act  of  shutting  up 
for  the  night.  The  very  sight  of  Florence  was  a  sedative 
to  Lora's  twitching  nerves.  Florence  was  sensible,  she  was 
maternal — or  was  she  a  hypnotist? 

At  any  rate  the  poor  foolish  rnoth  fluttered  into  the 
glamour  of  the  Bowe  Peepe  Shoppe. 

"My  dear !"  said  Mme.  Florence  in  a  big  New  England 
voice  as  she  rolled  forth  a  frivolous  chair  for  Lora's  ac 
commodation.  She  was  a  large-boned,  middle  aged  woman, 
her  hair  severely  parted,  her  eyes  a  kindly  brown,  her  face 
handsome,  as  though  disdaining  the  nonsense  of  being 
pretty. 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  fluttered  Lora,  casting  an 
accusing  look  toward  the  window. 

"Do  you  know  I  called  you  up  twice  to-day  and  you  were 
out  both  times  ?"  accused  the  able  Florence  with  one  of  her 
maternal  smiles.  "But  isn't  it  charming?" 

She  walked  over  to  the  window  with  the  stride  of  one 
who  should  command  armies.  And  strangely  it  seemed 
quite  natural  that  she  should  be  bringing  the  hat  forth 
daintily  and  trying  it  on  Lora's  lovely  head. 

"It  seems  a  shame  that  you  should  do  your  beautiful  hair 
so  elaborately,"  she  commented  as  she  pressed  the  hat  down 
at  the  crown  and  permitted  her  client  a  peep  in  the  long 
mirror. 

Lora  glanced  up  at  the  reflection  of  the  large,  friendly 
face  bending  over  her.  Somehow  she  could  not  take  of 
fence  at  Mme.  Florence's  splendid  impertinences. 

"Clay  likes  me  to  do  it  this  way,"  she  defended. 


li6  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"That  should  settle  it,"  said  the  kindly  voice.  "If  he 
wants  you  to  dress  in  gold  mesh  with  a  ring  in  your  pretty 
little  nose,  don't  you  disappoint  him." 

"Oh,  couldn't  you  make  it  less  than  sixty  dollars !"  cried 
Lora,  only  half  heeding  the  philosophy  as  she  regarded  the 
angelic  vision  of  herself  under  the  lacy  plumage. 

"Elise,"  commanded  Florence  of  her  skinny  assistant, 
"the  small  hand-mirror,  please." 

Lora  tilted  the  little  glass  one  side  and  another,  catching 
ecstatic  flashes  of  peach-bloom  and  crystal  grey  and  the 
fountain-spray  of  feathers  to  which  some  kingly  bird,  deep 
in  the  forests  of  New  Guinea,  had  given  his  life. 

"I'm  afraid  sixty  dollars  is  my  very  rock-bottom  price," 
said  Mme.  Florence  at  last. 

"I  know  it  is.  But  my  husband  says  I'm  spending  too 
awfully  much  money  and " 

"He's  probably  right,"  mused  the  peculiar  shepherdess 
of  Bo  Peep.  "Of  course  you're  pretty  enough  to  be  spoiled 
to  death.  But  you  know  what  happens  to  children  who 
have  too  many  birthday  parties  ?" 

Lora  sat  cocking  her  head  to  piquant  angles  and  per 
mitted  Mme.  Florence  to  answer  her  own  question. 

"They  break  all  their  toys,  cry  about  it  and  have  to  be 
spanked." 

"Madame,"  upspoke  the  cutting  voice  of  Elise  from 
across  the  room,  "shall  I  put  these  away  also?" 

Lora's  luxury-seeking  eyes  followed  the  question  to  be 
hind  a  small  show-case  from  which  the  lights  of  many 
stones  sparkled  and  shone.  Elise  was  arranging  a  tray  o£ 
beads  and  golden  knick-knacks. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  sold  jewellery !"  cried  Lora,  thrill 
ing  ardently. 

"Just  a  few  little  things.  Mostly  tailor-made,"  explained 
the  capable  person.  "Elise,  bring  the  tray  over  and  show 
Mrs.  Hollis." 

Lora  had  now  removed  the  paradise  hat  and  replaced  it 
with  the  yellow  feather.  The  ugly  Elise  tiptoed  forth  and 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  117 

set  a  brimming  tray  on  the  lap  of  the  eager  little  customer. 
There  were  miscellaneous  rings  and  beads  and  bracelets. 

"Most  of  these,  you  see,  are  imitations,"  explained 
Madame.  "Smart  effects  to  give  a  dot  of  colour  to  a  shirt 
waist  or  an  outing  suit.  Two  or  three  of  them,  though, 
are  genuine.  Once  in  a  while  a  customer  comes  in  and  asks 
me  to  sell  an  old  piece  at  a  commission.  There's  a  hand 
some  old  topaz  in  French  enamel." 

She  held  the  stone  daintily  against  Lora's  gown;  but 
Lora  was  unheedingly  pawing  over  the  miscellaneous  col 
lection. 

"What  a  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  holding  up  a  large  ring 
whose  cabochon  gem  twinkled  with  a  rich  blue  light. 

"Quite  dear,"  laughed  the  older  woman.  "I'm  asking 
fifteen  hundred  dollars  for  it,  and  a  bargain  at  that.  It's 
one  of  the  few  genuine  bits  I'm  handling.  It  really  makes 
me  nervous  to  keep  such  valuable  things  about  the  place. 
Isn't  it  beautifully  mounted  ?" 

She  took  the  ring  and  held  it  to  the  light  so  that  its 
blue  mysterious  orb  glowed  like  the  heart  of  a  star.  It 
was  then  that  a  naughty,  tempting  thought  tickled  the  cor 
ner  of  Lora's  conscience.  Had  she  been  able  to  carry  such 
a  sapphire  to  the  pink  man's  pawnshop  she  would  not  be 
worrying  about  Count  Francisco  and  to-morrow's  meeting. 

"Oh  dear!"  sighed  she  as  Mme.  Florence  dropped  the 
ring  on  the  tray  and  Lora  went  on  with  the  pawing  over 
process. 

"There's  a  lovely  old  quartz  cameo,"  Mme.  Florence  con 
tinued  with  the  exposition  as  she  opened  a  large  brooch  in 
the  palm  of  her  capable  hand.  "It  isn't  worth  much  as  a 
stone,  but — oh,  my  goodness !" 

It  all  happened  so  suddenly  that  Lora,  even  in  the  terri 
ble  cool  reflection  which  followed  after,  could  not  have 
told  just  what  brought  it  about.  Perhaps  the  lace  of 
Madame's  sleeve  caught  under  a  corner  of  the  tray  as  she 
lifted  her  arm.  At  any  rate  the  tray  flew  up  at  a  dangerous, 
angle,  Lora  struck  out  a  well-meaning  hand — and  all  of  an, 


ii8  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

instant  she  had  the  irritating  impression  of  sitting  under  a 
shower-bath  of  jewels.  With  a  clatter  like  the  spilling  of 
many  beans,  beads,  pins,  rings  and  bracelets  went  bouncing 
to  the  four  points  of  Mme.  Florence's  dainty  compass.  A 
jade  necklace  had  sprung  up  and  looped  itself  in  the  em 
broidery  of  Lora's  jacket.  She  sat  with  her  lap  full  of 
small,  shiny  treasures. 

"Isn't  it  awful!"  she  was  repeating  helplessly  as  the 
skinny  Elise  set  busily  to  work  picking  the  gems  from  her 
lap  and  Mme.  Florence,  already  on  hands  and  knees,  was 
gathering  a  harvest  from  the  rug. 

"Let  me  help."  Lora  sank  to  the  floor  and  began  scoop 
ing  industriously,  rattling  vari-coloured  stones  back  into 
the  tray. 

"Foolish  child!"  Mme.  Florence  assumed  her  good-na 
tured,  motherly  tone.  "You're  spoiling  that  sweet  little 
gown  of  yours.  You  don't  deserve  a  husband." 

"Oh,  but  it's  such  a  mess,  and " 

Lora,  on  her  hands  and  knees,  had  stopped  to  consider 
the  wreckage  of^  her  costume.  Her  gaze  went  travelling 
down  her  skirt  as  far  as  the  big,  senselessly  feminine  pocket 
arrangement;  and,  looking  there,  her  eyes  and  her  heart 
stopped  together.  It  was  as  though  a  managing  fate 
had  brought  forth  this  accident  for  her  own  special  bene 
fit.  Wealth  had  literally  dropped  into  her  pocket. 

She  arose  nimbly  to  her  feet  and  began  shaking  out  her 
rumpled  skirt.  She  didn't  look  down,  but  she  felt  sure  the 
bright,  gleaming  occupant  of  her  pocket  must  have  slipped 
out  of  sight.  Only  Elise,  the  austere,  regarded  her  sharply. 

"I — I'm  sorry — but  I  guess  I  will  have  to  go,"  Lora 
found  herself  trying  to  explain. 

"Just  a  minute,  my  dear,"  urged  Mme.  Florence  from 
her  kneeling  posture.  "Would  you  mind  looking  under  that 
showcase?  There's  one  piece  missing — that  sapphire — " 

"I — I'm  sorry.  I'm  really  late  now.  Send  the  paradise 
hat  around,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,   Mrs.   Hollis."     Mme.   Florence  arose   stiffly  and 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  119 

with  worried  look,  unusual  in  her  calm,  firm  face.     "I'll 
have  the  girl  take  it  right  over." 

"And  I  hope  you  find  the  ring.  Well,  good  night." 
As  soon  as  Lora  had  siunk  out  into  the  street  she  took  a 
guilty  peep  down  into  her  pocket.  The  ring,  caught  rather 
high  in  a  seam,  was  showing  forth  its  brilliant  blue  eye. 
What  if  that  ugly  assistant  had  seen  it  there  and  wondered 
at  her  silence?  Lora  looked  nervously  over  her  shoulder. 
After  she  had  walked  the  block's  length  she  delved  stealthily 
and  slipped  the  ring  into  her  muff.  A  glance  satisfied  her. 
It  was  the  cabochon  sapphire. 

It  didn't  seem  at  all  like  stealing;  more  like  having  dis 
agreeable  wealth  forced  upon  her.  She  had  never  enter 
tained  the  remotest  intention  of  taking  it.  There  were 
plenty  of  sophistries  to  help  her  out.  In  the  first  place  it 
would  be  terribly  embarrassing  to  go  back  to  the  Bowe 
Peepe  Shoppe  and  try  to  convince  Mme.  Florence  that  the 
ring  had  dropped  into  her  pocket.  Also  she  was  only  tak 
ing  it  as  a  loan  to  tide  her  over  until  the  Spanish  Govern 
ment  should  return  her  husband's  guarantee  .  .  .  tempt 
ingly  on  a  far  corner  she  could  see  the  blazing  window  of 
the  pink  man's  pawnshop.  It  would  be  better  to  put  it 
there  at  once  and  have  it  over  with.  The  blue  radiance  of 
the  jewel  seemed  to  be  burning  a  hole  in  her  glove. 

When  she  got  back  to  her  apartment  she  found  the  place 
a  blaze  of  light;  and  Clay,  a  white  beard  of  lather  on  his 
chin,  was  shaving  in  front  of  a  bath-room  mirror.  They 
were  to  dine  with  the  Bob  Tyndalls  to-night.  She  had  for 
gotten  that.  Her  face  wore  the  fixed  smile  of  dread  as  she 
came  forth  and  permitted  her  lord  to  smear  the  end  of  her 
nose  with  lather.  She  was  deliriously  happy  that  he  said 
nothing  about  her  request  over  the  telephone. 

"I've  had  a  hard,  hard  day,"  she  told  him  as  she  sat  on 
the  bed  and  began  unlacing  her  high  boots. 

"How  much  did  they  soak  you  this  time  ?"  he  asked,  but 
entirely  without  malice. 


120  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"There  you  go  again!"  she  pouted.  He  came  over  and 
mauled  her  in  his  arms,  teasing  her  with  affectionate  gibes. 

"Pinky !"  he  grinned.  "Something  tells  me  that  business 
is  picking  up  this  month.  I  don't  want  to  seem  like  a  flinty 
jailer,  honey.  But  we  were  running  awfully  close  for 
a  while." 

"What  would  you  say  if  I  should  help  you  some  time  in 
a  big,  big  way?"  she  asked  mysteriously,  revelation  on  the 
tip  of  her  tongue. 

"If  you'll  stay  just  as  pretty  as  you  are  now  you  can 
help  me  about  all  I  deserve,"  he  eulogised,  bending  over 
and  lifting  her,  doll-like,  from  her  feet. 

Clay,  she  thought,  looked  especially  distinguished  to-night 
with  a  little  grey  in  his  wavy  hair  and  his  seamy,  florid  face 
all  beaming.  How  well  a  ribbon  across  his  shirt-front 
would  become  him !  And  then  a  small  resentment  took  pos 
session  of  her.  He  thought  her  only  help  to  him  was  being 
pretty.  Unpleasantly  she  remembered  how  the  late  Wini 
fred  in  her  letter  had  bid  him  wed  "something  fluffy"  and 
be  happy.  She  would  show  him  what  a  fluff  can  do  in  af 
fairs  of  state. 

"I  can  be  something  besides  pretty,"  she  pouted. 

"Of  course  you  can,"  he  assured  her  lightly.  "You  can 
be  quick,  darling.  Peggy  Tyndall's  an  awful  scold  when 
anybody's  late  for  dinner." 

Trance-like  she  went  through  the  motions  of  dressing. 
She  jumped  nervously  when  the  door-bell  rang.  A  maid 
came  in  with  a  flower-strewn  band-box  distinctly  labelled 
"Ye  Bowe  Peepe  Shoppe."  It  wras  a  horrible  reminder  and 
she  could  not  get  rid  of  the  feeling  that  Mme.  Florence 
was  outside  waiting  to  grab  her.  She  remembered  that  her 
beaded  bag  was  filled  with  the  pink  pawnbroker's  tickets, 
mingled  with  his  soiled  bills.  She  tiptoed  over  to  a  silly 
gilt  desk  and  hid  her  self-convicting  evidence  behind  a  clut 
ter  of  papers. 

All  that  evening  she  was  by  turns  half  dead  and  sur 
charged  with  galvanic  energy.  Bob  Tyndall  drank  too 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  121 

many  cocktails  and  wanted  to  flirt.  She  usually  thought 
him  comic  when  he  was  a  bit  light-headed,  but  to-night  he 
drove  her  to  a  frenzy.  She  wanted  to  lock  herself  away; 
away  with  that  money  which  would  not  rest  easy  until  she 
had  delivered  it  into  the  hands  of  her  Spaniard.  Late  in 
the  evening  they  went  to  a  roof-garden  restaurant  where 
Lora  danced  miserably  and  often,  her  eyes  roving  always 
in  hopes  of  sighting  the  nimble  Francisco.  It  was  here  she 
had  first  seen  him  the  night  before.  He  danced  divinely, 
those  curious  steps  in  vogue  among  the  elite  of  Madrid. 
She  was  mad  to  dance  with  him  again,  to  talk  to  him  as 
they  whirled  and  assure  him,  in  the  most  approved  manner 
of  court  intrigue,  that  all  was  well  with  their  enterprise. 
Once  in  the  midst  of  a  labyrinthine  figure  across  the  floor 
she  fancied  she  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  lithe  form.  It 
was  impossible  that  she  had  been  mistaken;  yes,  his  elbow 
all  but  touched  hers  as  he  went  skimming  and  bobbing 
across  the  room,  clasping  a  young  lady  as  slender  and 
olive-skinned  as  himself.  She  turned  to  catch  his  eye,  but 
he  seemed  utterly  absorbed  in  his  partner.  The  picture 
affected  her  disagreeably.  She  wondered  if  he  spoke  fa 
miliarly  to  all  women,  just  as  he  had  called  her  "Senora 
Lora." 

"There's  your  Spigotty  friend,"  said  her  husband  when 
she  came  back  to  their  table. 

Lora  did  not  see  him  again  that  evening,  which  dragged 
on  and  on  into  the  small  hours.  Bob  insisted  on  taking  a 
table  at  the  Midnight  Frivols  and  Lora  was  eagerly  com 
pliant.  She  couldn't  face  the  idea  of  going  home.  But 
Tyndall's  mood  grew  heavy  and  he  began  nodding  on  the 
heels  of  two  o'clock. 

She  said  little  to  her  husband  as  they  bounced  homeward 
in  a  late  taxicab.  She  was  seething  to  tell  him  everything, 
but  the  blue  eye  of  that  stolen  sapphire  glared  evilly  upon 
her  conscience.  Clay,  who  was  at  heart  a  gentle,  protective 
animal,  seemed  to  fall  in  with  her  mood  and  to  ask  no 


122  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

questions.  But  before  they  had  taken  to  their  twin  beds 
he  kissed  her  with  his  usual  good  natured  tenderness. 

"What's  the  matter,  Lo  ?"  he  asked. 

"Just  sleepy."  She  smothered  her  face  in  her  pillow  to 
restrain  herself  from  screaming  out,  from  pleading  with 
him  to  save  her  from  the  hands  she  feared  were  waiting  to 
snatch  at  her  from  the  darkness. 

"Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r-ring !" 

The  voice  of  the  telephone  shrilled  through  the  night  and 
seemed  to  throw  at  her  all  the  nerves  her  husband  had  dis 
turbed  during  his  years  of  tooth- tapping. 

"Wow!" 

She  heard  him  turn  over  in  bed  and  clumsily  grope  for 
the  instrument  on  the  stand.  Terror  gripped  her  in  its 
skinny  arms.  She  knew  that  hideous  bell  was  ringing  out 
her  guilt.  Therefore  she  thrust  blindly  into  the  dark  and 
snatched  the  receiver  from  its  hook,  just  ahead  of  Clay's 
blundering  fingers. 

"Hello !"  said  a  low,  steady  voice  in  her  ear.  "I  wish  to 
speak  to  Dr.  Hollis,  if  you  please." 

"Who  is  this  ?"  asked  Lora,  trying  to  speak  clearly. 

"I  am  Mme.  Florence." 

Lora  gulped  twice  and  steadied  herself  to  the  lie. 

"This  is  Mrs.  Hollis.  The  Doctor  is  asleep  now.  Is  it 
important  ?" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hollis,"  spoke  Mme.  Florence  quite  cordially. 
"I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you.  But  I  have  a  shocking  tooth 
ache — an  ulceration;  and  I  can't  find  anything  to  relieve  it. 
I'm  too  ill  to  go  out  or  I'd  come  to  your  apartment  for 
treatment." 

"But,  Madame !"  Lora  was  rapidly  regaining  her  nerve. 
"You  know  dentists  aren't  accustomed  to  go  out  at  night 
like  regular  doctors.  I'm  afraid " 

"Don't  you  think  I  could  speak  to  your  husband  a  mo 
ment  ?"  the  proprietor  of  Bowe  Peepe  suggested. 

"I — I'm  afraid  not.  He  isn't  very  well  and  if  I  dis 
turbed  him " 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  123 

Clay  had  switched  on  the  light  and  was  signalling  with 
frantic  gestures.  Lora  put  her  hand  over  the  mouthpiece. 

"It's  Madame  Florence,  the  dressmaker.  She's  got  a 
tooth-ache." 

"I  don't  see  why  she  needs  to  chat  about  it  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning,"  he  growled,  immersing  himself  in  pillows. 

"Well,"  suggested  Lora,  all  too  sagely,  "shall  I  tell  her 
you  can't  come  ?" 

"Here,  let  me  talk."  He  motioned  authoritatively  to 
ward  the  telephone. 

"But,  Clay,  dear!"  She  held  it  tightly  to  her  breast,  al 
most  fainting  with  the  fear  of  that  impending  conversation. 

"What's  all  this,  Lora?"  he  asked  crossly,  fairly  snatch 
ing  the  instrument  from  her  hands. 

"I'm  sorry,  Madame,"  he  began  well  enough.  "There's 
nothing  I  can  do  at  this  time  of  night,  except  to  suggest 
something  from  the  drug-store — I  understand — but  it  will 
be  better  for  me  to  see  you  in  the  morning — yes.  My 
office?  No. —  It's  only  two  or  three  blocks  from  your 
shop — what's  that?" 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  she  could  hear  faint,  echoing 
words,  thin  as  cobwebs  as  they  fluttered  through  the  re 
ceiver.  But  it  was  the  expression  on  Clay's  face  which 
held  her  there,  propped  on  an  elbow,  staring.  For  all  his 
features  seemed  to  have  straightened  out,  his  eyes  had 
squeezed  tight  and  his  mouth  dropped  open,  forming  a  mask 
of  astonishment.  How  much  could  Mme.  Florence  have 
told  him  in  those  few  sentences? 

"Yes.  Yes."  He  snapped  the  words  out  one  after  an 
other.  "All  right.  I'll  be  right  over." 

He  arose  at  once  and  began  to  dress. 

"Will  you  ring  up  a  taxi,  dear  ?"  he  asked  in  a  curiously 
constrained  voice  as  he  went  rummaging  after  his  shoes. 

"But,  Clay,"  she  drawled,  steeling  herself  to  look  straight 
at  him,  "it's  raining  and  you  have  a  cold  already.  I  never 
heard  of  anything  so  peculiar.  The  brazen  nerve  of  that 
dressmaker !  Let  me  call  her  up  and  say " 


124  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Please,  darling,  don't  bother  me!"  He  went  right  on 
with  his  dressing. 

She  lay  there,  huddled  among  the  bedclothes,  and  watched 
the  details  of  his  hasty  toilet.  What  had  Mme.  Florence 
told  him  to  fetch  him  so  suddenly  out  of  coma  into  action? 
Never  before  in  their  married  years  had  he  stirred  to  duty 
after  office  hours.  Yet  there  he  stood,  struggling  passion 
ately  with  a  collar-button,  impatient  as  a  fireman  at  the 
first  alarm. 

"I'll  be  back  as  soon  as  I  can,"  he  informed  her  hastily 
as  he  threw  on  an  overcoat  and  snatched  up  a  bag  of  instru 
ments.  He  made  a  charge  at  the  door,  but  as  he  rushed  over 
the  threshold  his  hurrying  feet  crashed,  crumpled  and 
cracked  against  some  cylindrical  object  which  seemed  to  fly 
at  him  out  of  ambush. 

"Oh,  damn !"  he  snarled  and  kicked  across  the  room  a 
flower-strewn  bandbox. 

"My  hat !  My  new  hat  with  the  paradise  plume !"  wailed 
Lora,  now  utterly  undone.  The  front  door  closed  with  a 
bang. 

He  was  gone  two  hours  and  twenty-one  minutes,  for  Lora 
had  kept  constant  watch  of  the  little  mantel-clock  which 
seemed  ticking  off  her  doom.  That  horrid,  shrewd  dress 
maker  had,  of  course,  made  her  toothache  an  excuse  to  get 
Clay  there  quietly  and  tell  him  about  the  lost  sapphire. 
Lora  thought  of  wild,  simple  devices  of  escape,  but  re 
mained  huddled  in  bed,  enjoying  the  sensations  of  the  rat 
which  clings  to  the  wires  of  its  trap,  slowly  descending  into 
a  tubful  of  cold  water.  Could  she  lie  out  of  the  scrape? 
Or  could  she  face  him  with  a  true  story  which  would  sound 
quite  unbelievable?  He  would  make  a  search  of  the  place 
and  find  those  awful  pawn  tickets. 

Galvanised  by  the  thought,  she  scuttled  over  to  the  silly 
gilt  desk  and  brought  our  her  beaded  bag,  crammed  with 
the  evidence  against  her.  She  hadn't  the  heart,  even  now, 
to  sacrifice  the  bills ;  but  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  burn 
the  tickets.  Therefore  she  took  them  cautiously  over  to 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM 


the  gas-log  across  the  room  and  was  just  stooping,  match 
in  hand,  when  she  thought  she  heard  the  front  door  click. 
Frantically  she  spilled  the  cardboards  behind  the  log  and 
scampered  back  to  bed  where  she  lay  for  a  long  time,  per 
fectly  quiet,  listening.  No  footsteps  had  followed  the  warn 
ing  click.  The  sound  must  have  come  from  the  next  apart 
ment. 

She  lay  for  a  long  time,  quite  paralysed,  watching  the 
clock.  Nothing  in  the  world  would  have  bribed  her  to 
gather  those  pawn-tickets  again,  for  she  had  a  feeling  that 
to  touch  them  would  produce  another  ghostly  clicking  of 
the  front  door.  The  gilt  hour  hand  had  just  swung  beyond 
the  fourth  figure  when  Lora  resolved  upon  the  art  which 
woman  first  learned  in  caves.  She  would  appease  her  god 
with  food.  After  hours  of  slopping  through  the  drizzly 
night  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  few  slices  of  crisp  toast  would 
surely  have  an  effect  in  softening  his  towering  mood. 

Therefore  she  got  up  again,  shuddered  into  a  lacy  negli 
gee,  thrust  her  bare  feet  into  high-heeled,  satiny  arrange 
ments  and  went  click-clacking  toward  the  kitchen.  Driven 
by  a  nervous  industry,  she  sliced  bread,  set  water  to  boiling, 
measured  coffee  into  the  electric  percolator.  She  laid  a 
breakfast  tray  daintily  on  the  pompous  dining  table  and  the 
heartening  aroma  of  coffee  was  just  beginning  to  penetrate 
the  atmosphere  when  the  door  clicked  again.  This  time 
there  were  footsteps,  leaden,  weary,  slow.  She  didn't  dare 
call  out  at  first,  and  when  she  had  gathered  her  breath  she 
quavered  softly, 

"Clay  !" 

"Yes,  dearie." 

More  briskly  the  footsteps  approached  the  dining  room. 
She  never  looked  up,  but  almost  swooned  over  the  bread 
she  had  laid  on  the  electric  toaster.  She  felt  his  accusing 
presence,  heard  his  shoes  squeak  less  than  a  yard  from 
where  she  stood.  Wasn't  he  going  to  speak? 

"Lo,  dear,"  he  said  at  last  quite  huskily. 


126  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

••"•^^^^^^^^"•"^••"'•*™*''***"^"'^^*^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^— ^^^^^~ ^"*^^^^^^^^^^ 

Because  her  voice  had  gone  she  continued  fussing  with 
the  toaster. 

"Lo,"  he  repeated,  "you  aren't  sore  at  me,  are  you — be 
cause  I  went  off  that  way  ?" 

And  now  she  looked  at  him  and  beheld  a  miracle.  His 
face  was  suffused  with  the  tenderest  expression  she  had 
ever  seen  there — but  there  was  something  else,  too.  He 
looked  older  and  fearfully  tired. 

"Oh,  Clay!"  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and 
clung  there  tearfully. 

"And  you've  gotten  me  a  breakfast !  By  George,  you 
are  a  peach !" 

"I— I  thought  you'd  be  cold  and— 

She  couldn't  say  any  more.  The  relief  seemed  to  have 
pulled  all  the  props  out  from  under  her. 

"I  won't  do  any  more  of  this  midnight  ambulance  chas 
ing  and  scare  my  little  girl  to  death,"  he  was  assuring  her. 

"Was — was  Madame  Florence  very  sick?"  she  asked 
when  at  last  he  had  seated  himself  to  his  coffee  and  she 
could  look  at  him.  Just  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  passed 
across  his  brow. 

"Rather  a  bad  ulceration,"  he  declared.  A  few  sips  of 
coffee  seemed  to  revive  him. 

"She  was  a  mean  old  thing  to  rout  you  out  like  that." 

"I  suppose  so."     He  stirred  reflectively. 

"Lora,"  he  smiled  at  last,  laying  his  hand  over  hers,  "I'm 
mighty  proud  of  you  sometimes." 

What  in  the  world  had  Madame  Florence  said  to  him? 

in 

Clay  had  no  sooner  gone  to  his  office  in  the  broad  light  of 
day  than  Lora  gathere4  the  pawn-tickets  from  behind  the 
gas  log  and  slipped  them  back  in  her  bag.  At  a  quarter 
past  eleven  she  dusted  the  last  touch  of  powder  on  her  deli 
cate  little  nose,  surveyed  the  beauties  of  her  paradise- 
plumed  hat  and  put  on  her  mink  coat.  She  was  stimulated 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  127 

with  the  cocktail  of  mixed  emotions,  which  is  compounded 
as  follows:  one  third  guilt,  one  third  glamour,  one  third 
ambition  with  a  large  dash  of  foolish  romance,  all  shaken 
together  briskly  in  the  ice  of  fear. 

The  expression  on  her  pink  and  white  face  was  one  of 
withering  hauteur  as  she  rode  down  the  rococo-mir 
rored  elevator,  her  hand-bag  bulging  with  the  pawnbroker's 
dirty  bills.  Out  on  the  drive,  the  drizzle  having  abated, 
she  took  an  omnibus.  She  didn't  know  why  she  should 
have  chosen  this  economical  mode  of  locomotion,  unless  it 
was  that  she  wished  to  go  forth  to  an  intrigue  of  state  in 
a  character  other  than  her  own. 

She  walked  stiffly  up  the  driveway  to  the  Claremont's 
glass-caged  entrance  and  was  just  surveying  the  utter  empti 
ness  of  the  window-lined,  corridor-like  dining  room,  over 
looking  the  Hudson,  w  ^  c  a  taxicab  chugged  up  to  the  door 
and,  to  her  terrified  relief,  Count  Francisco  Miguel  de 
Llargo  y  Jiminez,  handsomely  attired  in  a  light  grey  over 
coat  with  sealskin  collar  and  cuffs,  bounced  nimbly  forth, 
tossed  a  lordly  fee  to  his  chauffeur  and  approached  her  in 
courtly  wise. 

"Isn't  it  fine  the  place  is  all  empty!"  were  her  first  in 
cautious  words  to  him. 

"Senora !"  He  laid  a  warning  hand  upon  her  arm.  An 
other  taxicab  had  whiffled  round  the  drive  and  come  to  a 
stop  at  the  door.  A  loud  young  man  in  a  pin-check  pat 
terned  suit  got  out  with  the  vague  air  of  one  who  had 
mingled  day  with  night  for  an  indefinite  period. 

"My  party  ain't  here?  Well  it  ought  to  be  here,"  the 
pin-checked  one  kept  explaining  to  the  head  waiter  at  the 
Claremont's  door.  "I  want  a  Scotch  highball  and  a  tele 
phone  and  a  table  for  four.  Where's  my  party?" 

The  head  waiter  was  protesting  that  the  management 
stooped  not  to  concealment. 

"Over  in  this  corner,"  Francisco  guided  Lora  by  an  el 
bow  to  a  remote  table. 

"I  didn't  think  you'd  be  on  time,"  she  giggled  nervously. 


128  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Promptness  is  an  American  virtue,"  he  smiled,  giving 
his  compliment  just  the  touch  of  disapproval.  He  man 
aged  to  convey  the  impression  that  the  royal  house  of  Spain 
never  did  anything  on  schedule.  He  didn't  look  so  hand 
some  this  morning.  There  were  shadows  under  his  agate 
eyes  and  his  olive  complexion  had  greened  over  night. 
She  wanted  to  ask  him  about  the  sombre  beauty  with  whom 
he  had  been  dancing,  but  instead  she  whispered : 

"I've  got  it." 

"The  whole  amount?"  His  eyes  lost  their  languor  and 
kindled  into  coals. 

Lora  nodded.  She  was  going  into  details,  but  the  perky 
young  man  in  the  loud  suit  came  quarrelling  down  the 
aisle,  insisting  that  he  wanted  a  telephone  for  his  "party." 
Francisco  watched  him  narowly  until  *  waiter  had  helped 
the  interloper  toward  the  office. 

"I  had  an  awful  time,"  Lora  repeated  as  soon  as  the 
coast  was  clear.  She  opened  her  bag  and  brought  the  un 
tidy  roll  of  bills.  Francisco  took  one  look  round  the  room 
before  he  whisked  the  bank-notes  dextrously  into  an  inside 
pocket. 

"You  understand — this  mustn't  be  seen,"  he  whispered. 
"Diplomatic  spies  watch  everything — much  rivalry." 

"There  isn't  anything  dishonest  about  it?"  she  enquired, 
wide-eyed  with  the  thought  that  she  might  be  playing  from 
one  crime  into  another. 

"La  politico,,  Sefiora,  is  seldom  pure.  In  my  mission  here 
I  have  arranged  many  appointments.  You  would  be  sur 
prised  at  the  offers  of  bribes  I  have  received  from  most 
high  people.  I  should  like  to  give  you  name  of  one  Sena 
tor — but  not!  He  was  so  desirable  for  position  as  Am 
bassador  to  Spain  that  he  attempt  to  present  me  with  one 
hundred  and  fifty-five  thousand  dollars." 

"What  did  you  do?"  she  asked,  wondering  why  the  cor 
rupt  Senator  had  chosen  so  odd  an  amount  as  the  wages 
of  perfidy. 

"The  Austrian  Ambassador  met  him  in  the  morning  with 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  129 

my  card.  Then  what  did  that  Senator — paisano?  He  de 
sired  to  club  me  with  his  fists !  Malo!  In  Spain  only  mules 
are  permitted  to  combat  with  hoofs." 

Lora,  who  had  read  somewhere  in  a  magazine  that 
America  was  still  a  young  nation,  tried  her  best  to  be  sym 
pathetic.  Francisco  brightened  visibly  at  her  solace. 

"But,  ah,  Senora !  To  see  you  and  Senor  your  husband, 
that  is  the  difference.  Civilisation,  culture  are  possible 
even  here." 

Still  pleased,  yet  full  of  a  muddled  worriment,  Lora  was 
about  to  repeat  Mr.  McClosky's  Brian  Boru  myth;  but  an 
uneasy  conscience  spoiled  her  zest.  She  had  come  here  at 
great  risk,  bearing  the  money  which  had  robbed  her  of 
rest  and  honour,  and  he  had  taken  it  as  lightly  as  one 
plucks  a  weed  from  a  vacant  lot.  She  had  come  expecting 
him  to  specify  his  further  plans  for  her  husband's  ad 
vancement.  Instead  he  dallied  with  compliments.  It  was 
as  though  the  transaction  were  quite  over;  in  fact  she  sus 
pected  that  Francisco  was  casting  glances  toward  the  door. 

"Would  the  Senora  care  for  some  drink?"  he  at  last 
languidly  enquired. 

"Nothing  for  me,"  she  replied  a  trifle  tartly. 

"No?"  He  beckoned  to  the  hovering  waiter.  "I  will 
take  another  of  your  amusing  American  cocktails." 

When  the  waiter  had  withdrawn  with  the  order  she  at 
last  spoke  up. 

"Say,  Count,  don't  I  get  a  receipt — or  anything — to  show 
that  I've  paid  over  the  money?" 

"Senora !"  he  lifted  a  thin,  deprecating  hand  and  smiled 
a  smile  to  match.  "You  must  remember  this  is  of  a  deli 
cacy  !  One  scrap  of  paper  could  be  dangerous  to  that  in 
ternational  relations." 

"Oh,  but  I'd  be  careful  of  it,"  she  persisted. 

"I  trust  your  wiseness,  Senora.  That  is  not  it.  But 
there  are  such  many  people  to  watch  and  do  harm !" 

"I  don't  care."  She  resorted  to  the  illogic  which  had 
always  fetched  her  husband.  "I  want  a  receipt." 


130  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

For  Lora  Hollis  knew  nothing  of  the  world.  But  her 
father's  simple  business  dealings  with  New  Balaam  had 
taught  her  one  basic  rule;  when  you  pay  out  money  you 
get  a  receipt  for  it. 

"If  I  don't  get  it,  I  want  my  money  back,"  she  told  him 
harshly,  disregarding  the  injured  look  upon  his  sensitive 
face. 

"Bring  paper  and  ink !"  The  lord  of  Aragon  and  Castile 
snapped  his  fingers  under  the  nose  of  the  waiter. 

For  the  first  time  in  their  brief  but  rapid  acquaintance 
there  came  an  embarrassing  pause  between  them.  She  was 
dreadfully  sorry  she  had  hurt  him,  possibly  wrecked  poor 
Clay's  chances  with  the  choosy  Alfonze.  The  Count,  who 
had  spoken  of  fiery  encounters  with  United  States  Sena 
tors,  was  no  doubt  touchy. 

The  tension  was  at  last  relieved  by  the  arrival  of  writing 
material  which  the  waiter  arrayed  deferentially  beside 
Francisco's  untouched  cocktail.  Daintily  the  grandee 
dipped  the  pen,  poised  it  a  moment  and  began  to  scribble 
flourishingly  upon  the  Claremont's  best  paper.  She  hoped 
he  wouldn't  write  it  in  Spanish,  but  didn't  dare  suggest 
anything,  so  engrossed  did  he  seem  in  the  difficult  compo 
sition.  With  fascinated  eyes  she  watched  the  elaborate 
gyrations  of  his  cameoed  hand;  she  heard  the  shuffling  of 
chairs  at  the  next  table  and  the  low  murmur  of  voices,  but 
her  eyes  were  all  for  the  mechanical  details  of  that  great 
transaction. 

"How  would  that  be,  Sefiora?"  he  was  smiling  his  cus 
tomary  smile  as  he  shoved  the  paper  toward  her,  but  the  re 
ceipt  was  scarcely  under  her  hand  than  her  eyes  were  held, 
not  by  the  document  but  by  the  miraculous  change  which 
suddenly  transformed  the  Count's  expression.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  slipped  on  a  mask,  for  the  olive  smoothness 
of  his  cheeks  darkened  suddenly  to  the  colour  of  a  sun- 
struck  brkk.  His  eyes  were  glued  to  a  point  just  over  her 
shoulder  arfd  he  was  bobbing  his  head,  showing  a  row  of 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  131 

teeth  like  marble  monuments.  Lora  turned  her  head  and 
followed  the  direction  of  his  peculiar  salute. 

She  recognised  the  young  man  with  the  pin-checked  suit 
and  it  took  her  numbing  senses  just  a  moment  to  grasp  the 
identity  of  the  large,  comfortable  woman  who  had  taken 
a  chair  beside  him  and  was  smiling  over  at  Count  Fran 
cisco.  Madame  Florence  of  the  Bowe  Peepe  Shoppe ! 

"You  have  your  receipt,"  explained  Francisco,  using  a 
voice  which  had  become  suddenly  brisk  as  he  popped 
nimbly  to  his  feet.  "Adios,  Sefiora !  I — what  you  say  ? — 
see  you  some  more." 

Already  he  had  turned  toward  the  door.  Lora  had  a 
feeling  of  being  basely  deserted,  alone  in  a  cage  with  a 
Bengal  tiger. 

"But  Count— say!" 

The  appeal  was  wasted  on  the  row  of  empty  tables  and 
the  horridly  occupied  one  next  hers.  Out  of  the  swim 
ming  room  he  seemed  to  float  away.  Dimly  she  could  hear 
his  taxicab  chugging  down  the  Drive.  She  sat  all  hud 
dled  over  the  table,  afraid  to  move,  her  shoulder  cringing 
from  the  avenging  Fate  who  sat  behind  her.  At  last  there 
came  the  soft  whispering  of  skirts  and  she  saw  Madame 
Florence,  still  smiling,  come  round  the  table  and  seat  herself 
in  the  chair  which  Francisco  had  so  recently  vacated. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  she  asked  quite  agreeably,  leaning 
on  her  elbow  and  giving  Lora  the  benefit  of  her  entire 
attention. 

"Don't  ask  me,"  replied  Lora  rudely.  "You  seem  to 
know  him." 

"Well,  yes — in  a  professional  way.  But  I  wondered 
what  he'd  been  telling  you — I  heard  you  calling  him  Count." 

"He  is,"  replied  Lora  sullenly.  "He's  Count  Francisco 
and  a  lot  of  things." 

"He  must  have  gotten  his  title  over  night,"  Madame  in 
formed  her  victim.  "He  was  plain  Mr.  Blanco  of  Ar 
gentina  when  he  came  to  my  shop  yesterday  with  his 
dancing  partner " 


132  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"His  what?"     The  shock  of  cold  water  brought  her  to. 

"He's  an  acrobatic  vaudeville  dancer,"  the  Bowe  Peepe 
proprietress  explained.  "He  brought  around  his  wife — 
she's  his  dancing  partner — and  wanted  to  get  a  wardrobe 
on  credit.  Of  course  I  don't  do  business  that  way  with 
strange  dancers  from  Argentina.  So  he  told  me  he'd  have 
the  money  this  afternoon." 

"Oh."  Lora  said  it  sickeningly  as  though  she  had  been 
struck  by  a  baseball. 

"Now  tell  me,  my  dear,"  urged  Madame  Florence,  her 
brown  eyes  holding  her  powerfully,  "what  is  it  you've  been 
signing  away  so  industriously?" 

"It  can't  be  he's  a  fraud !"  Lora  was  exerting  her  entire 
will  to  keep  from  weeping  aloud.  "It  can't  be!  He's  a 
friend  of  the  King  of  Spain.  He  promised  to  make  Clay 
Court  dentist.  He's  gone — you've  got  to  help  me — he's  gone 
with  my  thousand  dollars !" 

"My  Lord!"  swore  Madame  Florence.  "Can  it  be  pos 
sible  that  people  are  still  falling  for  that  sort  of  stuff?" 

"But  he's  getting  away — with  my  money!" 

"I  think,  my  dear,"  replied  the  older  woman  very  calmly, 
"that  you'd  better  forget  about  that  thousand  dollars." 

"But  I  can't  afford  to  forget  about  it — can't  you  see?" 

"I  don't  think  your  husband's  reputation  will  be  improved 
by  a  humorous  column  in  all  the  morning  papers.  We 
could  get  the  money  away  from  your  Francisco — in  fact, 
I've  had  my  detective  follow  him  up  to  see  that  he  doesn't 
cause  any  more  trouble " 

Lora  glanced  swiftly  round  and  for  the  first  time  realised 
that  the  loudly  dressed  young  man  had  also  departed. 

" — but  I  think  we're  cheaply  out  of  it,  as  it  is.  In  fact, 
when  I  realised  that  you  had  taken  the  sapphire  ring,  I 
wondered  just  what  had  gotten  into  your  foolish  little 
head." 

Lora  lifted  her  eyes.  There  was  no  use  denying  any 
thing  now. 

"Elise  was  almost  sure  she  had  seen  it  in  your  pocket; 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  133 

but  I  wanted  to  be  certain,  so  I  searched  the  place  until 
midnight.  There  hadn't  been  another  person  in  the  shop 
since  the  tray  was  spilled,  and  I've  trusted  Elise  with  all 
sorts  of  valuables  for  years."  Madame  Florence  eyed  the 
thief  reflectively.  "It  gave  me  a  great  deal  of  worry.  I 
knew  that  you  had  more  to  spend  than  was  good  for  you. 
Also,  you  aren't  the  shoplifting  kind.  You  must  have 
wanted  the  money  awfully  for  some  silly  thing.  It  was 
nearly  morning  before  I  decided  to  call  up  your  husband. 
I  couldn't  think  up  any  better  excuse,  so  I  had  a  tooth 
ache " 

"Madame  Florence !"  Lora's  eyes  were  big  with  the 
impending  disgrace.  "You  didn't  tell  him!  You  couldn't 
be  so  cruel !" 

"No,  I  couldn't,"  she  replied  with  one  of  her  sad,  rather 
ironical  smiles.  "I  thought  I  could — you  see,  I  was  pretty 
mad.  But  when  Claymore  got  there  and  I  began  asking 
him  about  you — I  wonder  if  men  aren't  harder  to  fathom 
than  women?" 

The  thought  caused  her  eyes  to  stray  over  the  Hudson, 
whose  leaden  stream  a  tug  was  then  smudging  from  a 
smoky  stack. 

"Anyhow,  I  had  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  him, 
because  I  thought  he  ought  to  be  warned.  But  when  I 
began  to  quizz  him  he  burst  into  a  perfect  hymn  of  praise. 
You  were  the  duckiest,  sweetiest,  most  wonderful  little 
wife  in  all  the  world.  Child,  child,  but  you  have  him 
drugged !" 

"Then  you— didn't  tell  him?" 

"How  could  I  bring  him  out  of  his  dream?  No.  I  just 
groaned  and  let  him  put  some  awful  dope  into  my  perfectly 
well  tooth." 

Mme.  Florence  seemed  a  trifle  ashamed  of  her  weak 
ness,  for  she  added,  quickly, 

"But  I'm  a  business  woman,  you  know.  I  didn't  intend 
to  have  that  ring  taken  right  from  under  my  nose.  So  the 
first  thing  this  morning  I  hired  a  detective  to  watch  you 


134  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^ "" '^ **"^^^^""^*™*TTTTT""'^^^'"'*'""MM**T**™"^^^^"^ 

and  he  telephoned  me  when  you  and  your  nobleman  got 
as  far  as  the  Claremont.  Now  I  want  you  to  tell  me  some 
thing  right  away.  Where  did  you  pawn  it?" 

Lora's  trembling  hand  went  into  her  bag,  now  vacant  of 
its  wealth,  and  brought  out  the  sheaf  of  pawn-tickets. 

"You  poor  lamb!"  sighed  Mme.  Florence.  "I'll  bet 
you've  popped  everything  you  could  lay  your  pretty  hands 
on.  Oh,  well !"  She  gave  a  short  laugh  and  slipped  the 
right  ticket  into  her  purse.  "I  suppose  it's  a  consolation 
to  know  that  if  there  weren't  so  many  fools  in  the  world 
the  Bowe  Peepe  Shoppe  could  never  pay  its  rent." 

Half  blinded  with  her  tears,  Lora  reached  out  for  the 
other  tickets  which  had  strewn  the  cloth. 

"My  child,"  said  Madame  Florence  softly,  "I  wish  you'd 
let  me  make  a  bargain  with  you.  I  happen  to  know  how 
awfully  in  love  with  you  your  husband  is.  You  may  be 
a  doll,  my  dear,  but  what's  the  difference  if  he's  got  you 
on  a  really  dignified  pedestal?  Don't  let's  get  sentimental. 
But  take  it  from  a  woman  who  knows  how  valuable  it  is 
to  be  attached  to  anything  human.  And  I  want  to  keep  this 
thing  dark,  so  that  there  won't  be  a  chance  in  the  world 
of  your  husband's  thinking  less  of  you." 

"Why  are  you  so  good  to  me?'*  asked  the  child  wife 
brokenly. 

"I  don't  suppose  it's  proper  for  a  dressmaker  to  feel  like 
an  older  sister  towards  one  of  her  customers,  is  it?  But 
that's  the  crazy  notion  I  have  in  my  head.  And  so  I'm 
going  to  take  over  the  whole  job."  Her  plump  hand  had 
gone  across  the  table  and  gathered  in  the  entire  deck  of 
pawnbroker's  tickets.  "I'm  going  to  redeem  the  whole 
pack." 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  cried  Lora,  biting  her  red  under  lip 
as  tears  gathered  anew. 

"Your  husband's  one  of  the  sort  who  takes  out  his  ar 
tistic  temperament  in  filling  teeth.  It's  impossible  for  him 
to  live  long  on  the  mere  bread  and  meat  of  matrimony. 
But  don't  take  advantage  of  his  weakness.  Be  humanly 


PEACHES  AND  CREAM  135 

grateful  for  what  he  does.  It  may  give  him  pleasure  to 
squander  money  on  you  like  water — but  give  him  a  little 
kindness  for  his  trouble.  He's  the  sort  that  can't  really 
love  a  woman  unless  he's  breaking  his  neck  for  her;  but 
it  sort  of  breaks  me  up  to  see  him  making  this  big  play 
and  getting  so  little  for  it.  He  seems  to  look  frazzled  and 
neglected,  in  spite  of  his  protests  that  he's  the  happiest  man 
in  the  world.  Sweeten  things  for  him,  my  dear.  Make  him 
glad  he's  got  his  peaches  and  cream " 

Peaches  and  cream ! 

"Madame  Florence,"  said  Lora  rather  sharply,  "it  seems 
to  me  you're  telling  me  a  lot  about  how  to  run  my  hus 
band.  Do  you  think  you  know  him  any  better  than  I  do  ?" 

"How  do  I  know?"  asked  the  fashionable  shopkeeper. 
"I  might.  I  lived  with  him  fifteen  years." 

The  present  Lora  and  the  past  Winifred  rode  together 
in  the  same  taxicab  down  Riverside  Drive.  Which  is  not 
so  strange,  after  all,  in  the  city  of  infinite  combinations. 
When  she  alighted  at  the  Gigantic  Apartments  there  was 
just  time  for  Lora  to  make  one  last  protestation. 

"You — you  don't  think  all  this  will  be  too  much  expense 
for  you?" 

"I  feel  quite  rich  to-day,"  smiled  Madame  Florence.  "I 
got  my  alimony  this  morning." 

And  Lora,  to  her  own  amazement,  offered  her  face  for 
a  kiss,  which,  she  regretted,  yet  prayed,  would  be  good-bye. 


IV 
THUNDER 


SOPHIE  EMMETT  was  waiting  for  Harlan  Wey- 
mouth  in  the  foyer  at  Sherry's.  He  caught  the  gleam 
of  her  pale-coral  evening  gown  and  the  flash  of  her 
dark  eyes  from  a  far  corner  where  she  sat.  The  sight 
of  her,  merely  an  impression  from  a  distance,  imparted  to 
him  something  of  that  original  thrill  of  anticipation  which 
he  had  felt  in  their  earlier  meetings,  sometimes  casual  or 
stolen.  There  was  nothing  furtive  in  their  trysts  now, 
kept  openly  in  the  most  public  restaurants  in  New  York. 
Old  Emmett  had  seen  to  all  that.  Their  appearances  to 
gether  might  breed  scandal,  but  it  was  scandal  well  stage- 
managed  by  Sophie's  husband,  as  though  it  had  been  billed 
in  enormous  letters  "Sophie  Emmett  and  Harlan  Wey- 
mouth,  To-night  at  Sherry's,  under  the  Direction  of 
Elijah  Emmett." 

Harlan  stepped  briskly  up  to  the  lady  in  the  coral  gown 
and  bowed  his  most  urbane  bow. 

"Late,  Harlan !"  she  smiled  at  his  approach. 

Dashed !  He  had  hoped  against  hope,  during  that  short 
tour  across  the  foyer  carpet,  that  the  original  Sophie,  the 
Sophie  of  the  bland,  insinuating  wit,  would  be  there  to 
greet  him  with  an  epigram.  But  here  sat  his  beautiful 
changeling,  calm  in  her  decorative  dulness. 

"I  like  being  waited  for,"  he  suggested,  desperately  cast 
ing  his  bait.  "It  gives  me  a  feeling  of  power."  It  fell  dead. 

"Oh,  does  it  ?"  she  asked,  moving  her  small  mouth  help 
lessly. 

They  walked  in  together  to  take  their  seats  at  a  table  for 

136 


THUNDER  137 


two  by  the  wall.  Weymouth  now  began  to  understand  why 
civilised  men  become  wife  beaters. 

He  found  a  chance  to  study  her  a  moment  as  she  puzzled 
over  the  bill  of  fare.  Undoubtedly  she  had  her  good  points. 
The  upward  sweep  of  her  delicately  brushed  eyebrows,  the 
slant  of  her  coal-black  eyes,  the  spirited  poise  of  her  small 
head,  the  defiant  tip  of  her  nose  gave  to  her  person  an 
elfin  charm.  She  might  have  carried  little,  tantalising  wings 
on  the  points  of  her  smooth  white  shoulders.  She  was,  in 
a  word,  the  lively  physical  embodiment  of  the  Sophie  Em- 
mett  Idea ;  the  body  and  the  idea  which  had  turned  Harlan 
Weymouth  in  an  hour  from  a  scoffer  to  a  mangled  devotee. 
What  an  admirable  picture  she  was  of  brilliancy  and  quick 
ness,  designed  to  fascinate  and  destroy  an  errant  knight 
who,  even  as  a  neophyte,  had  written  on  his  shield  in  red 
dest  letters  "I  Hate  Dull  Women."  And  surely  nothing 
trite  or  threadbare  could  come  from  those  delicate,  up 
turned  lips ! 

"I'll  have  oysters,"  she  was  saying  just  then.  "They're 
safe  in  the  R  months." 

"I  don't  believe  you're  even  pretty!"  snarled  Harlan 
Weymouth  to  himself. 

"Are  you  tired,  my  dear?"  he  asked  her  somewhat  hope 
fully,  after  their  order  was  given.  That  must  be  it. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied  with  the  same  terrible  brightness 
she  shed  upon  the  dulness  of  her  words.  "I  had  ever  so 
good  a  nap  this  afternoon." 

Then  her  comatose  state  was  deeper  than  the  physical. 
It  was  a  spiritual  deadening.  His  heart  sank. 

"Why  did  you  ask?"    She  eyed  him  directly. 

"You  seem  to  be  spreading  all  over  the  cosmos,  like 
melted  butter.  I  mean  to  say,  you're  distraught.  You're 
not  entirely  with  us.  Must  I  get  out  a  search  warrant  and 
look  for  Sophie?" 

"Oh,"  she  pouted.  Faint  hope  revived  within  him — she 
often  pouted  on  the  verge  of  her  famous  utterances,  glow 
ing  in  his  memory  of  the  Golden  Era,  two  months  past. 


138  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Don't  you  think  good  friends — as  we  are — can  enjoy 
beautiful  silences  together?"  she  asked  solemnly,  mincing 
her  words  as  he  had  heard  so  many  members  of  the  Medal 
lion  Club  do.  She  gave  him  an  appealing  look,  just  as  a 
child  would  after  delivering  a  set  speech.  Then  she  plain 
tively  asked,  "Harlan,  what's  the  matter?" 

"You  must  know,  Sophie,"  he  answered  shortly. 

"I  haven't  the  remotest  idea." 

"That's  it — you  haven't  the  remotest  idea.  Oh,  I'm 
sorry,  Sophie.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude.  But  I  can't  help 
thinking  you're  acting  some  sort  of  part." 

"I  don't  understand." 

From  her  expression  it  was  obvious  to  see  that  she  didn't, 
yet  he  went  on  stubbornly : 

"Sophie,  you're  the  cleverest  woman  in  New  York. 
People  say  so.  I  say  so.  Mrs.  Clemworthy  says  it  unto 
the  Scribes  and  Pharisees  every  Wednesday  morning. 
And  I've  heard  you  talk  like — like  the  angel  Israfel  reply 
ing  to  George  Bernard  Shaw.  You  had  a  slant  on  life. 
You  were  seldom  at  a  loss.  I  went  wild  over  you,  Sophie, 
because  I  found  you  the  inspired  prophetess  of  lively  think 
ing.  You  had  a  glorious  view-point  on  yourself  and  me  and 
everybody  else.  I  don't  like  ugly  women,  as  a  rule;  but  if 
you  had  been  as  ugly  as  Medusa  I  think  I  should  have 
packed  my  grip  and  followed  you  to  the  ends  of  the  world." 

She  was  looking  blankly  at  him,  offering  not  a  word  in 
her  defence,  and  Weymouth  found  his  temper  rising  as  he 
went  rapidly  on: 

"I  hate  dull  women.  I've  deserted  the  whole  adoring 
tribe  of  my  female  relatives  and  gone  to  live  in  a  hotel  as  a 
protest  against  verbal  stupidity.  I'd  rather  live  alone  on  a 
mountain  top  or  in  the  back  of  a  saloon  than  to  listen  to 
warmed-over  cant.  And  that's  why  I  flew  to  you,  Sophie, 
and  kicked  over  every  convention  in  the  world — made  this 
ridiculous  bargain  with  your  husband — in  order  to  listen  to 
you  forever.  And  this  is  how  you've  been  serving  me." 


THUNDER  139 


He  fell  suddenly  silent,  ashamed  of  his  outburst;  for 
Sophie  Emmett's  little  mouth  was  trembling  childishly. 

"You're  disappointed  in  me !"  she  said  quaveringly. 

"Oh,  please  don't  cry.  I  know  it's  only  temporary — 
everybody  has  lapses.  But  it  seems  so  unfortunate.  Just 
in  the  two  months  when  we  were  to  be  together,  to  get  used 
to  each  other  .  .  .  and  it's  only  an  hour  before  we  must 
go  to  your  husband  with  some  sort  of  decision — 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say  ?"  she  demanded,  her  black 
eyes  taking  fire.  Hope  and  -love  raged  suddenly  in  his 
breast.  He  had  lashed  her  with  words.  She  couldn't  look 
like  that  without  saying  something  out  of  the  ordinary. 

"Something  besides  bromidioms,  Sophie,  that's  what  I 
want  you  to  say."  He  was  out  with  it  now,  and  the  task 
grew  easier.  "For  the  past  two  weeks,  I  swear,  you've  been 
going  on  like  this — telling  me  that  oysters  should  be  eaten 
only  in  the  R  months ;  that  you  like  many  Germans  individu 
ally,  although  you're  strongly  pro- Ally;  that  the  Republi 
cans  might  have  won  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  Hughes  Spe 
cial Have  a  heart,  Sophie  !  I  didn't  fall  in  love  with  you 

for  the  purpose  of  finding  out  that  the  sky  is  blue  when 
the  sun  shines  or  that  the  Rocky  Mountains  are  grand.  My 
Aunt  Cordelia,  from  whom  I  am  now  a  refugee,  has  in 
formed  me  along  that  line  until  I'm  entirely  fed  up  on  the 
obvious.  What  I  want  is  Sophie — and  I'd  like  to  know 
where  you've  been  hiding  her.  Where  is  the  girl  I  saw  that 
day,  sizzling  like  a  comet  into  the  midst  of  a  foggy  ladies' 
discussion  with  the  remark  that  a  club  woman  in  Bohemia 
is  like  a  High  Church  clergyman  mounted  on  a  motor 
cycle?" 

"Harlan,  you're  impossible!"  she  flashed  out  suddenly. 
"I'm  ashamed — I'm  disappointed  in  you — oh,  how  can 
you!" 

She  reached  for  the  large  silk  hand  bag  which  occupied 
a  third  chair,  and  fished  out  a  tiny  square  of  lace.  This 
she  applied  pathetically  to  her  eyes. 

His  heart  sank  to  even  a  lower  level.    He  had  expended 


140  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

r*~ — — ^— ^— ™~--i-^-~~"'''^""-"»^^~''*~"  *•••••• ™^-»— •— ~™~-—*~ a—^^— ««^ 

his  ingenuity  on  empty  space.  The  ideal  Sophie,  the  iri 
descent  Sophie,  had  evaporated  by  some  black  magic  and 
left  this  dull  woman  in  her  stead.  He  had  stung  her  with 
sarcasms,  she  had  responded  with  tears.  How  he  hated  a 
dull  woman ! 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  found  himself  apologising  in  leaden 
tones.  "I — I  merely  thought  this  was  the  last  chance  we 
should  have  to  discuss  the  matter  candidly.  I ' 

An  intrusive  waiter  was  serving  soup.  She  sat  staring 
at  the  swimming  okra.  Presently  her  fine  eyes  lit  with  a 
sudden  inspiration  and  she  delved  again  into  the  silken 
bag.  This  time  she  brought  out  a  small  gold  box  which  she 
opened  and  began  staring  into  the  recess.  Instinctively  he 
knew  she  was  looking  at  her  nose  in  a  concealed  mirror. 
At  last,  when  she  had  quite  finished  patting  away  the  tear 
stains  under  her  eyes,  he  went  on  desperately: 

"Of  course,  if  you  wish  it,  I'm  going  to  ask  your  hus 
band's  consent  to  our  marriage." 

"You're  going  to  do  no  such  thing !"  she  snapped,  drop 
ping  the  little  box  into  the  silk  bag  and  drawing  the  string. 
The  tears  had  left  her  dark  eyes,  which  were  flashing  dan 
gerously.  "You've  gone  far  enough — you're  horrid — I  don't 
like  you  a  bit  and ' 

She  arose,  picked  up  her  bag,  dropped  a  glove,  picked  it 
up,  gathered  a  gold-mesh  purse  from  beside  her  plate,  put 
it  in  her  bag,  picked  up  another  glove  and  then  stood  facing 
him  defiantly. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  was  his  weak  appeal. 

"Home,"  said  she.  "Back  to  my  husband  as  fast  as  I 
can." 

"But  we — we're  not  to  see  him  until  nine  o'clock.  We 
were  to  go  together.  It's  now  only  quarter  past " 

"Don't  follow  me,  please !"  He  stood  there  with  the 
silly  feeling  that  all  Sherry's  was  witness  to  another  social 
comedy.  Then  he  settled  weakly  into  his  chair,  leaving  her 
to  sweep  down  the  aisle  toward  the  door. 

It  was  a  matter  of  minutes  before  he  had  summoned  the 


THUNDER  141 


waiter  and  sheepishly  paid  his  bill.  Then  he  was  after  her 
flaming  course.  But  in  those  minutes  she  had  cloaked  her 
self  in  a  furry  garment  of  peacock  blue ;  and  before  he 
could  snatch  his  hat  and  coat  from  the  man  at  the  door  her 
vivid  little  figure  had  locked  itself  in  a  taxicab  which  now 
honked  away  toward  Fifth  Avenue. 

Weymouth  took  the  downward  steps  four  at  a  time.  It 
was  foolishly  unnecessary  that  she  should  be  running  back 
home  like  this  at  the  eleventh  hour.  There  was  a  lack  of 
teamwork  in  it  that  offended  his  sense  of  order. 

"Taxi !"  he  shouted  savagely  and  plunged  into  the  first 
open  tonneau. 

"Where  to,  sir*?"  inquired  the  broad-faced  one  on  the 
box. 

"Follow  that  yellow  car  ahead !"  demanded  Weymouth 
breathlessly.  The  driver  threw  in  the  clutch  so  rudely  that 
the  structure  trembled  in  its  greasy  joints,  and  the  pursuit 
started  with  a  kangaroo  plunge  that  landed  them  well 
toward  the  corner,  round  which  the  yellow  car  was  just 
disappearing.  So  closely  for  a  while  did  the  pursuer  cling 
to  the  pursued  that  Weymouth,  under  brilliant  street  lamps, 
could  distinctly  see  the  back  of  her  proud  little  head  sil 
houetted  in  the  rear  window  of  the  yellow  car.  It  was  a 
garlanded  head,  well  poised  on  a  straight  white  neck,  and 
there  were  rhinestones  twinkling  among  the  coils  of  her 
hair. 

What  plot  had  that  little  head  been  hatching  against  him  ? 
he  asked  uneasily.  Was  it  Sophie's  fault,  or  her  husband's  ? 
Could  it  be  possible  that  she  was  just  the  pathetic  little  fool 
she  had  appeared  of  late?  A  curious  predicament  for  any 
sane  man  to  find  himself  in — curiouser  and  curiouser,  as 
Alice  had  said  to  a  Wonderland  acquaintance. 

II 

It  was  now  six  months  since  Harlan  Weymouth  had  first 
found  Sophie  Emmett.  To  his  memory  that  initial  glimpse 


H2  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

was  like  the  first  sighting  of  a  meteor  in  a  drizzly  sky.  In 
capacity  of  editor  and  critic  of  the  Spark,  that  journal  of 
cleverness  which  the  few  admired,  he  had  been  persuaded 
against  his  better  judgment  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  Me 
dallion  Club.  Mrs.  Clemworthy,  indefatigable  member,  had 
extended  the  welcome  in  good  faith ;  but  it  had  been  Wey- 
mouth's  intention  to  write  a  satirical  essay  entitled  Dull 
Gilt,  showing  how  wit,  like  Midas,  can  be  strangled  by  too 
much  gold. 

So  Weymouth  had  gone  to  a  morning  session  of  the  Me 
dallion  Club  and  sat  in  an  ornate  roomful  of  fashionable 
ladies  of  the  sort  who  "think  they  think,"  according  to  the 
Weymouthian  code.  Poor,  patient  martyr  to  investigation, 
he  had  sat  for  a  long  time  and  sighed  himself  into  a  torpor. 
The  topic  of  the  morning  was  Does  Bohemia  Exert  a  Genu 
ine  Influence  on  Civilisation  ? 

He  had  come  there  thinking  this  was  going  to  be  funny ; 
but  already  his  thoughts  were  centred  on  a  graceful  means 
of  getting  out.  His  slumberous  eyes  had  wandered  over 
every  detail  of  the  room.  Mrs.  Douglas  Clemworthy,  shape 
less,  sitting  upright  like  some  florid  piece  of  upholstery,  had 
occupied  a  chair  next  him,  as  though  to  shut  off  his  escape. 
Mrs.  Hawtry  Blucher,  displaying  her  fashionable  figure 
below  a  faded,  simpering  face,  had  been  reading  for  sev 
eral  minutes  in  her  pallid  voice.  Weymouth  had  thought 
with  an  inner  groan  of  Mrs.  Blucher's  industrious  social 
secretary — what  she  must  have  endured  in  tables  d'hote  in 
order  to  gather  data  for  that  paper  on  How  Bohemia  Eats. 
Weymouth  had  all  but  succumbed  to  sleep  upon  this 
thought;  but  he  had  still  held  a  corner  of  his  eye  on  the 
door.  He  had  hated  dull  women  from  infancy.  He  yawned 
behind  his  programme.  At  that  instant  a  broken,  sympa 
thetic  sigh  had  emanated  from  the  lady  on  his  left. 

It  was  then  that  Weymouth  had  his  first  glimpse  of  So 
phie  Emmett.  She,  too,  was  yawning;  and  as  he  caught 
her  eye  just  the  ghost  of  an  understanding  spark  was  tele 
graphed  to  him  to  keep  him  awake  until  Mrs.  Blucher  had 


THUNDER  143 


brought  her  hopeless  eternity  to  a  period.  And  it  was  at 
that  moment  that  his  comet,  his  lawless,  splendid  meteor 
in  a  Paris  gown  had  flared  up  for  him  in  all  her  glory. 

"Are  there  any  re "  Mrs.  Spratt-Cowle,  the  chair- 
lady,  had  been  about  to  say  "any  remarks,"  but  the  small, 
pantherlike  young  woman  on  Weymouth's  left  had  deci 
sively  gotten  to  her  feet  and  requested  the  floor. 

"Madam  Chairman,"  she  had  prefaced  her  memorable 
comment,  "I  hope  you'll  pardon  my  asking  something.  But 
isn't  a  club  woman  in  Bohemia  something  incongruous — like 
a  Church  of  England  clergyman  mounted  on  a  motor  cycle?" 

The  Medallion  Club  laughed.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the 
Medallion  Club  appreciated  Sophie  Emmett,  and  Weymouth 
was  grateful. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Emmett,  I "  stammered  the  large  lady 

on  the  platform. 

"I  just  wanted  to  know,"  went  on  the  pretty  little  irri 
tant.  "I  realise  that  women's  clubs,  taken  altogether,  do  a 
great  deal  of  good.  But  the  Medallion  Club  doesn't — it 
wouldn't  know  good  when  it  saw  it.  It  only  talks  about  it, 
the  way  Peer  Gynt  talked  about  the  Bogue — and  then  went 
roundabout.  Now  here  we  are  discussing  Bohemia.  It 
might  as  well  be  Mars — or  better  perhaps,  because  some  of 
us  have  seen  Mars  through  a  telescope.  But  how  many  of 
us  have  gotten  nearer  Bohemia  than  Puccini's  opera  ?  You 
can't  see  Bohemia,  you  know,  the  way  you  see  Chinatown — • 
by  paying  a  dollar  a  head  and  being  taken  round  by  a  man 
with  a  megaphone.  You've  got  to  live  Bohemia,  and  dance 
Bohemia,  and  eat  Bohemia.  That's  probably  the  hardest 
of  the  lot — eating  Bohemia.  Then,  of  course,  you've  got  to 
meet  Bohemia  in  its  own  jungle — jolly,  reckless,  ratcish 
young  art  students ;  actors  temporarily  unemployed ;  free, 
inspired,  dusty  poets,  and  whatnot.  It's  the  whatnot  that 
makes  Bohemia  hardest  to  bear.  Ladies,  have  we  investi 
gated?  Have  we  danced  and  mingled  with  their  perfectly 
dreadful  wine,  women  and  song?  Have  we  greeted  the 
dawn  with  a  lyric  and  forgotten  to  shampoo  our  heads  for 


144  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

generations  ?  I  should  like  to  know  if  Mrs.  Hawtry  Blucher 
has  done  any  of  these  things?  And  if  so,  when?" 

The  tall  lady  reared  her  fashionable  form,  and  her  pallid 
face  took  on  a  coat  of  scarlet. 

"I  sometimes  think  we  members  of  this  exclusive  circle," 
Sophie  Emmett  had  gone  on  suavely,  "have  reached  a  plane 
of  development — like  yogis  and  Grand  Lamas — where  we 
know  all  about  everything,  without  bothering  our  heads  to 
find  out  about  anything.  Facts  are  dull ;  feminine  intuition 
is  bright.  Feminine  intuition  is  magical.  It  leaps  to  con 
clusions  and  pulls  the  facts  up  after  it.  Or,  if  there  aren't 
any  facts,  it  sits  proudly  on  top  of  the  conclusions  and  stays 
there  until  some  one  comes  to  the  rescue  with  a  stepladder. 
By  this  method  we  have  gone  rapidly  through  Bohemia  this 
morning.  Bohemia  is  finished.  Our  next  topic  will  be  The 
Human  Soul." 

"You  are  mistaken,  I  think."  Mrs.  Spratt-Cowle  stepped 
to  the  edge  of  the  platform  to  correct  her.  "Our  next  topic 
will  be  The  Panama  Canal :  Its  Use  in  Case  of  War." 

"I  stand  corrected,"  Sophie  had  said  and  sat  down. 

"Does  Mrs.  Emmett  wish  to  put  her  remarks  in  the  form 
of  a  motion?"  Madam  Chairman  had  asked. 

"Not  necessarily,"  had  been  the  smiling  reply  that  had 
adjourned  the  meeting.  The  room  had  broken  up  into 
chattering  groups. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  who  is  she?"  Weymouth  had  asked 
eagerly  of  Mrs.  Clemworthy. 

"Is  it  possible  you  haven't  heard  of  Sophie  Emmett? 
Sophie  with  the  serpent's  tongue  ?  Sophie,  the  spice  of  the 
Medallion  Club?  Sophie  of  the  disappearing  husband? 
You  must  come  right  over  and  meet  the  most  6rilliant 
woman  in  New  York." 

Sophie  Emmett  had  given  him  an  inspiring  fifteen  min 
utes  of  her  point  of  view,  of  ideas  that  soared  high  like  a 
fish  hawk  and  plunged  deep  and  true  upon  their  prey.  Wey 
mouth,  the  fastidious  dilettante  of  women  and  of  minas, 
absorbed  her,  spongelike,  and  went  away  saturated  and 


THUNDER  145 


happy  to  put  her  thoughts  on  paper,  to  fill  the  columns  of 
the  Spark  with  the  eternal  glory  of  an  idealised  Sophie. 

He  had  called,  of  course,  at  the  big,  handsome  Emmett 
home  in  East  Sixty-seventh  Street ;  and  almost  immediately 
he  had  told  her  that  she  was  his  literary  breath  of  life. 
He  had  been  sure  of  her  pleasure  in  seeing  him,  for  she  had 
come  swiftly  across  the  formal  rose-and- white  drawing- 
room,  her  ivory  cheeks  flushing  happily  as  she  held  out  her 
hand.  She  had  expressed  the  Medallion  Club  so  livingly, 
he  told  her ;  and  got  the  response  that  she,  Sophie  Emmett, 
cared  too  much  for  women  and  their  work  to  see  it  mocked 
by  that  pretentious  circle  of  parlour  thinkers. 

This  private  interview  had  brought  them  together  with 
tremendous  rapidity,  and  he  had  found  himself  naively 
relating  scraps  of  autobiography  with  a  freshman's  enthu 
siasm.  The  rosy  spectacles  had  straddled  his  nose ;  she  had 
appeared  to  him,  from  that  hour  on,  as  some  fascinatingly 
unique  orchid,  bewitchingly  involved. 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  like  my  husband,"  she  had  assured 
him  on  that  occasion.  "Nobody  likes  him — besides,  he 
would  loathe  the  sight  of  you.  He  would  have  some  sort 
of  theory  in  his  pocket  by  which  to  condemn  you  forever. 
Elijah,  you  know,  lives  in  a  cave  and  gnaws  theories.  He's 
an  anchorite.  He  crawls  into  his  cell  upstairs  during  day 
light  hours  and  prowls  by  night.  In  his  lighter  moments 
he  reads  Nietzsche  and  condemns  the  human  race.  Of 
course  he  isn't  decent  to  go  about  in  society.  The  old 
darling,  I  love  him !  We've  arranged  everything  splendidly. 
On  Mondays,  Wednesdays  and  Fridays  I  lock  away  the 
world  and  play  cave  woman  to  his  cave  man.  On  Sun 
days,  Tuesdays,  Thursdays  and  Saturdays  I  belong  to  the 
world.  Isn't  it  an  excellent  plan?  Few  women  can  enjoy 
freedom  respectably  four  days  in  the  week." 

"If  you  told  him  what  a  perfect  savage  you'd  found, 
don't  you  think  he  might  be  favourably  impressed?"  he 
laughed. 

"Probably  not,"  quoth  she.     "You  know  how  it  is  with 


146  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

married  couples.  When  a  stranger  comes  into  their  midst 
the  chances  are  about  eight  to  one  against  everybody  liking 
everybody  else.  It  can  be  worked  out  mathematically — 
but  I  hate  figures,  they're  so  truthful." 

"Well,  let's  say  we  like  each  other  and  let  it  go  at  that," 
he  had  suggested  brashly. 

His  last  request,  put  with  boyish  plainness,  had  grown 
to  be  an  obvious  enough  fact.  He  saw  her  well  and  long 
during  the  four  charmed  days  in  the  week.  The  dour 
Elijah  grumbled  somewhere  in  the  background,  Weymouth 
supposed,  always  grimly  obliging  to  their  thickening  ro 
mance.  Weymouth  caught  Sophie's  husband  one  day  when 
he  came  for  tea.  A  greying  man,  fat,  uncouth,  slightly 
bald,  with  sags  under  his  eyes  and  a  mouth  that  turned 
down  at  the  corners,  he  had  regarded  Weymouth  curiously, 
as  a  mastiff  might  sniff  at  a  beetle.  Weymouth  felt  that 
he  had  intruded  into  a  family  colloquy  and  reflected,  with 
a  novel  pang  of  jealousy,  that  he  had  no  right  here.  Elijah 
Emmett's  replies  had  been  mostly  grunts,  as  he  gobbled  his 
tea  with  scalding  haste,  spilling  a  few  drops  on  the  waist 
coat  of  his  untidy  suit. 

Somehow  that  one  sight  of  the  mysterious  Elijah  Emmett 
had  given  Weymouth  a  feeling  that  his  pursuit  of  Sophie 
was  within  the  realm  of  fair  game.  This  thing  of  joy  and 
fancy  chained  unhappily  to  a  sullen  stone;  how  could  he 
blame  her  if  she  gambolled  wildly  during  her  little  hours 
of  freedom?  And  yet  Emmett  could  not  be  so  tyrannous 
a  monster,  else  he  would  have  forbidden  her  journeying 
into  the  realm  of  even  her  discreet  adventurings. 

"Mondays,  Wednesdays  and  Fridays."  She  had  said  it 
jestingly,  but  time  proved  to  her  adorer  that  the  speech 
was  literally  true.  Several  times  he  had  telephoned  on 
those  sacred  days,  only  to  be  put  off  with  "Oh,  I  can't. 
I'm  husbanding  to-day."  Elijah,  Weymouth  discovered 
after  much  painstaking  research  among  club  gossips,  had 
gone  out  into  the  world  almost  not  at  all  since  their  mar 
riage  several  years  ago.  He  had  retired  from  the  stock 


THUNDER  147 


exchange  with  a  carefully  invested  fortune,  and  had  given 
up  most  of  his  clubs  at  the  same  time.  Emmett  was  a 
queer  fish,  they  told  him — rather  clever,  but  eccentric. 
What  did  he  do  with  his  time?  Oh,  he  was  some  sort  of 
fatuous  student — scribbled  a  great  deal  for  his  own  amuse 
ment  and  collected  things — books  probably.  He  made  semi 
annual  descents  upon  his  clubs,  where  he  nodded  stiltedly 
at  a  few  greying  heads  and  ate  alone  behind  a  newspaper. 
Emmett  had  deliberately  lost  himself  in  the  thickets  of 
New  York. 

Weymouth's  intimacy  with  Sophie  Emmett  had  pro 
gressed  with  insidious  smoothness.  Of  course  they  were 
talked  about,  because  he  was  a  figure  of  a  sort  in  the  world 
of  art,  and  the  fashionable  society  with  which  he  endured 
an  occasional  dinner  or  opera  usually  referred  to  him 
breathlessly  as  "a  fascinating  Bohemian."  Sophie,  too,  had 
cast  aside  a  troop  of  gentlemanly  flower  bearers  in  order 
to  give  free  way  to  his  devotions. 

Step  by  step  to-night,  pursuing  her  yellow  taxicab 
through  the  mazes  of  Manhattan's  traffic  system,  Wey- 
mouth  could  trace  the  course  which  had  brought  them  so 
suddenly  into  each  other's  arms. 

He  had  tried  his  best  to  keep  their  intimacy  on  a  Pla 
tonic  basis.  Plato  was  a  poor  chaperon,  as  always.  Nimble 
as  they  were  at  thrust  and  parry,  cool  as  they  intended  to 
be  in  logic  and  epigram,  they  could  not  avoid  the  keen  edge 
of  danger.  Weymouth  had  been  the  first  to  feel  the  wound ; 
and  he  told  her  so  blunderingly,  fully  expecting  her  to  laugh 
him  down  from  her  worldly  barricade.  Instead  he  was 
alarmed  and  a  little  delighted  to  find  her  silent.  Obviously 
Sophie  Emmett  had  no  adequate  repartee  to  an  emotion  to 
which  her  quick  little  nature  responded  all  too  well.  They 
were  blundering  into  love. 

And  on  the  memorable  night,  just  two  months  and  a  day 
ago,  they  had  gone  to  the  opera  together.  Of  course  it  was 
Tristan  and  Isolde,  which  no  two  people  who  admire  the 
colour  of  one  another's  eyes  should  ever  see  without  a 


148  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

padded  neutral  to  sit  between  them.  Love,  death  and  a 
passionate  orchestration,  added  to  the  fact  that  the  great 
vault  of  the  Metropolitan  was  darkened  for  the  scene,  com 
bined  to  banish  scruples  as  lightly  as  the  swaying  of  a 
wand  in  the  hand  of  an  eminent  director.  Weymouth 
pressed  Sophie's  fingers,  as  naively  as  the  art  is  practised 
among  callow  lovers  when  the  light  is  low  in  the  moving- 
picture  theatres.  She  had  permitted  the  caress  until  the 
last  tragic  curtain.  And  on  the  way  home,  after  he  had 
taken  her  in  his  arms  and  said  several  things  unworthy  of 
a  penetrating  thinker — as  he  deemed  himself  to  be — she 
had  looked  up  suddenly  and  declared : 

"Harlan,  I  am  going  to  tell  my  husband  everything." 

"Don't  do  anything  crazy,  Sophie !"  he  had  pleaded  in  a 
panic,  for  their  cab  had  almost  reached  the  Emmetts'  door. 
"Let  me  go  away  for  good — I've  been  insane.  I'm  sorry." 

"No,  you're  not.  And  neither  am  I,"  she  had  replied  as 
she  had  stepped  out  to  run  up  the  white  steps  of  her  house. 

Next  morning,  sleeping  late  after  a  surprisingly  good 
night's  rest,  the  telephone  beside  his  bed  had  disturbed  him 
before  nine  o'clock,  and  a  sharp  New  England  voice  had 
barked  through  the  receiver: 

"Weymouth?    Want  to  see  Weymouth!" 

"This  is  he,"  Weymouth  had  replied  with  all  the  cool 
ness  he  could  command. 

"My  name's  Emmett — if  you  don't  remember  me,  I'm 
Sophie's  husband."  And  before  Weymouth  could  formu 
late  a  polite  syllable  the  voice  at  the  other  end  had  gone  on 
in  harsh,  choppy  sentences :  "Wish  you  would  call  on  me. 
To-day — this  morning — eleven  sharp.  Not  a  quarter  past. 
I'm  going  out  at  half  past.  'By." 

That  was  all,  delivered  in  the  most  acutely  businesslike 
tone. 

"A  new  chapter  in  the  code  duello,"  Sophie's  lover  had 
reflected,  shuffling  toward  his  bath. 

He  had  called  promptly  at  eleven,  as  Mr.  Emmett  had 
so  unbendingly  suggested.  Weymouth  found  the  clumsy, 


THUNDER  149 


massive,  untidy  man  wiping  his  eye-glasses  behind  a  fearful 
chaos  of  books  and  papers  in  a  big,  bare  room  full  of  bur 
dened  shelves.  The  sacks  beneath  his  eyes  this  morning  had 
suggested  the  bloodhound.  But  to  his  nervous  visitor's  sur 
prise  the  bunchy,  square  face  had  been  twisted  to  a  grin. 

"Well,  Weymouth,"  had  been  his  first  comment,  ad 
dressed  quite  familiarly,  as  though  to  a  confidential  clerk, 
"so  you  and  Sophie  have  made  up  your  minds  that  you're 
in  love  with  each  other." 

"Ye-yes.  That's  about  the  case."  Weymouth  had  stam 
mered  like  a  schoolboy. 

"Humph!  She  came  and  told  me  last  night.  I  wasn't 
surprised.  Thing  to  be  expected."  The  big  man  had  sat 
toying  with  his  necktie,  an  article  of  antique  pattern  that 
he  wore  askew  under  his  low,  unfashionable  collar. 

"Not  surprised  a  bit.  Women  have  to  be  suited  at  any 
price  these  days,"  he  went  on  in  his  choppy  accents. 
"Suits  me  all  right.  Provided,  of  course,  it's  genuine.  Are 
you  sure  about  that,  Weymouth?" 

"Absolutely,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned,"  the  lover  had  re 
plied  with  unnecessary  heat. 

"Well,  Sophie  thinks  she's  just  as  sure.  Said  so  several 
times.  Now  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  take  this  case  in 
hand.  This  is  my  policy :  Do  nothing  to  stand  in  your  way. 
All  foolishness  to  interfere  in  a  genuine  love  affair.  But 
there's  one  thing,  Weymouth — understand — one  thing." 
He  brought  a  big,  stubby  finger  down  on  the  manuscript  be 
fore  him.  "If  you're  going  to  marry  Sophie  and  take  care 
of  her  you've  got  to  be  sure  first  that  you'll  get  on  together. 
If  you're  going  to  swap  steeds  in  midstream  there's  no  use 
trading  a  mule  for  a  jackass.  Understand?  The  only  ex 
cuse  for  matrimony  is  that  it  adds  something  desirable  to 
the  life  of  each  party.  That's  the  idea,  isn't  it?" 

Emmett  had  quizzed  him  shrewdly  with  his  keen  eyes. 

"I  think  you've  stated  the  case  rather  well,"  the  uncon 
ventional  suitor  had  admitted. 

"All  right,  then.    Here's  the  bargain  I'm  willing  to  make 


150  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

i^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^j 

with  you :  Weymouth,  I'm  sending  Sophie  to  a  good,  re 
spectable  private  hotel  to  stay  exactly  two  months.  Won't 
see  her  husband  a  minute  during  that  period.  She'll  have 
a  chaperon  to  look  out  for  her,  but  you  can  see  her,  take 
her  round  all  you  please.  That's  all.  And  here's  the  only 
string  I  tie  to  the  arrangement:  If  at  the  end  of  those  two 
months  you — young  people — can  come  round  to  see  me  and 
say  you're  still  in  love,  all  right.  Leave  it  to  me !  I'll  say 
'Bless  you,  my  children,'  see  that  she's  divorced  properly 
and  you're  married.  No  questions  asked." 

Weymouth  had  given  Sophie's  obliging  husband  a  look 
of  blank  amazement. 

"D'you  call  that  square?"  Emmett  inquired,  biting  off 
his  words  more  sharply  than  ever. 

"Square?  Yes — it's  too  square.  It's  a  very  peculiar  ar 
rangement." 

"I'm  a  peculiar  man,"  replied  Emmett  shortly,  with  his 
rough,  rather  ingratiating  smile.  "Is  the  arrangement 
agreeable  to  you?" 

"Absolutely,"  his  dazed  visitor  had  admitted. 

"Good !  I  can't  give  you  any  more  time  this  morning — 
got  to  get  out.  Two  months  from  to-day  will  be  Wednes 
day,  the  fourth  of  January.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
Good  day,  sir." 

in 

Harlan  Weymouth,  lumbering  along  in  the  wake  of  the 
yellow  taxicab  this  evening  of  the  fourth  of  January,  looked 
at  his  watch.  It  now  lacked  twenty-five  minutes  of  the 
hour  of  nine.  His  cab  came  to  a  stop  in  a  narrow  street 
leading  into  Park  Avenue,  and  peering  out  he  could  see 
that  they  were  pocketed  in  a  tangle  of  drays  and  excava 
tions.  Sophie's  car  was  blocked  a  few  yards  ahead  of  him. 
There  was  a  wait  of  two  minutes,  during  which  teamsters 
swore  in  the  darkness,  lanterns  flashed  back  and  forth,  con 
fusion  reigned  in  the  sloppy  street.  Dimly  in  the  rear  win 
dow  of  the  yellow  car  he  thought  he  could  see  her  white 


THUNDER  151 


face  turned  appealingly  toward  him.  He  opened  the  door 
of  his  vehicle  and  was  about  to  plunge  out  and  go  to  her, 
but  a  saving  caution  restrained  him.  If  they  came  together 
now  they  would  probably  quarrel  again.  It  was  too  late 
for  further  words.  The  case  must  be  laid  before  Elijah 
Emmett. 

A  fog-horn  voice  out  of  the  night  brayed  "Go  ahead!" 
He  could  see  the  ruby  light  of  the  yellow  taxicab  plunge 
forward  through  the  debris.  The  driver  of  his  own  ram 
shackle  chariot  pulled  the  gears  with  a  frightful  rasp,  his 
car  responded  with  its  habitual  kangaroo  movement  and 
stopped  so  suddenly  that  its  passenger  was  half  thrown 
from  his  seat. 

Weymouth  uttered  an  unclever  oath  and  resumed  his 
cushions.  Another  truck  had  wheeled  across  his  path,  the 
horses  dozing  philosophically. 

"Go  round !"  roared  Weymouth  to  his  driver,  and  the 
latter  began  backing  away  in  a  smudge  of  oily  smoke. 

In  their  subsequent  detour  Weymouth  clutched  the  seat 
and  ground  his  teeth  like  a  thwarted  pirate.  She  had  beaten 
him  to  the  goal  after  all.  Upon  cooler  thought  he  knew  that 
it  couldn't  make  any  great  difference  if  she  saw  her  hus 
band  first.  It  was  just  the  feminine  character  of  the  act 
that  irritated  him.  Elijah  had  distinctly  stated  the  rules 
by  which  the  game  was  to  be  played.  And  she  had  lightly 
defied  these  rules  at  the  last  moment. 

As  soon  as  his  vehicle  had  come  to  a  violent  halt  in  front 
of  the  Emmetts'  greystone  fagade,  he  had  a  stinging  realisa 
tion  that  the  yellow  taxicab  had  come,  left  its  fare  and  de 
parted.  By  now  Sophie  had  met  her  husband  and  rendered 
her  verdict.  The  small  hostility  of  her  act  annoyed  him, 
as  he  took  the  steps  three  at  a  time  and  jammed  an  irritable 
thumb  against  the  button  of  the  bell.  After  a  dignified 
space  a  footman  appeared,  to  motion  him  stiffly  into  the 
formal  reception  room. 

"Mr.  Emmett  is  still  at  dinner,  sir,"  he  announced  upon 
his  return.  "He  says  won't  you  please  come  in." 


152  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

It  was  a  nightmare  walk  for  Weymouth  down  the  hall 
toward  the  wide,  tapestried  doorway  of  the  Emmett  dining 
room.  And  it  was  a  splendid  setting  for  a  comedy  of 
Italian  duplicity  that  he  beheld  in  the  great  space  beyond, 
with  its  carved  wainscoting  and  ornate  Florentine  ceiling. 
He  had  associated  this  big  room  with  rapturous  dinners  en 
joyed  in  an  atmosphere  of  intellectual  adoration  during  the 
Golden  Age  of  Sophie.  Yet  here  in  the  doorway  he  paused, 
a  stranger,  blinking  into  the  flood  of  light  that  surrounded 
the  well-set  table,  flashing  reflections  of  crystal  and  silver. 
And  this  was  what  he  saw:  The  massive  Elijah  Emmett, 
like  a  great  grey  bear,  in  a  badly  fitting  business  suit,  sat 
by  the  table,  utterly  absorbed  in  a  shuddering  silken  bundle 
that  he  held  tightly  and  clumsily  in  his  arms.  A  surge  of 
destructive  jealousy  quite  overcame  the  onlooker  at  first. 
Then  he  wanted  to  laugh.  The  light  of  four  many-branched 
candlesticks,  geometrically  arranged  on  the  damask  cloth, 
imparted  a  sparkle  to  the  elaborate  table  display  and  il 
lumined  the  bald  spot  at  the  apex  of  Elijah  Emmett's  low 
ered  head.  For  the  silken  bundle  in  his  arms  was  Sophie 
Emmett. 

"Hem!"  suggested  Weymouth  as  soon  as  he  had  gazed 
his  fill. 

"Ah,  Weymouth!"  responded  Elijah,  looking  up  at  last. 

Whereat  the  white  and  slender  arms  which  clung  so  hys 
terically  round  the  massive  neck  were  tightened  and  a  high 
voice  quavered: 

"Oh,  Elijah!  Send  him  away!  He  doesn't" — a  sob — 
"he  doesn't  understand  me !" 

"There,  there,"  soothed  her  gigantic  master,  patting  her 
gently  with  a  heavy  paw,  "don't  worry  about  him.  I  under 
stand  you." 

As  Harlan  Weymouth  approached  the  dramatic  table  he 
had  some  delicacy  at  first  in  looking  upon  this  intimate 
family  scene.  But  when  he  did  look  he  turned  quickly 
away.  Still  snuggled  against  her  Elijah's  untidy  waistcoat, 


THUNDER  153 


she  had  got  out  her  little  golden  box  and  sat  serenely  pow 
dering  her  nose ! 

"Come  here  and  sit  down,  Weymouth,"  invited  Emmett 
genially,  as  he  sipped  his  cooling  coffee,  making  no  pretence 
at  rising.  "On  time,  I  see." 

Weymouth  seated  himself  a  space  away  from  the  table, 
as  far  removed  from  Sophie  as  convenience  would  allow. 
There  ensued  a  terrific  pause,  the  more  oppressive  because 
of  Emmett's  mountainous  good  humour.  The  arbiter  of  the 
situation,  he  chose  his  time  to  finish  his  coffee. 

"Well,"  said  Elijah  at  last,  nestling  his  wife's  dark  head 
the  more  closely  against  his  shoulder,  "what's  the  verdict  ?" 

Sophie  Emmett  sat  suddenly  up  on  her  husband's  knee, 
and  considering  her  perch  she  presented  a  front  of  sur 
prising  dignity. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  another  word  about  it,  if  you 
please,"  she  commanded,  a  queen  in  the  lap  of  her  god. 

At  that  moment  Weymouth  almost  rendered  her  his  un 
biased  judgment.  Anger  had  brought  animation  into  her 
pretty  face — or  was  it  merely  the  stupid  pique  of  a  cat 
striking  out  with  her  claws  ? 

"That's  quite  positive,  is  it?"  smiled  Elijah  Emmett. 
"And,  of  course,  that's  enough  to  dissolve  the  partnership. 
Too  bad.  Started  out  with  every  promise  of  going  nicely." 

Emmett  began  striking  fire  upon  Weymouth's  imagina 
tion. 

"You're  splendid !"  he  admitted  abruptly. 

"I'm  sensible,"  replied  the  big  man,  with  his  staccato 
accent.  "And  that  has  a  certain  splendour  in  this  genera 
tion.  The  splendour  of  loneliness."  He  put  his  wife  down 
in  a  chair  as  though  she  had  been  a  doll.  "You  look  tired, 
my  dear,"  he  said  gently.  "Better  go  to  your  room  and  put 
on  something  less  elaborate.  You  couldn't  afford  that  gown 
in  the  first  place,  and  you'll  spoil  it  sitting  round  in  it." 

She  never  looked  at  Weymouth  as  she  went  out  of  the 
room  and  out  of  his  life  as  docile  as  a  chidden  child.  So 


154  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

this  was  a  glimpse  of  the  rough  country  at  the  farther  end 
of  romance  !  He  sighed. 

"Sigh  away!"  Elijah  Emmett  "bade  him,  his  rugged 
features  breaking  into  a  smile.  "I  guess  you're  about  as 
glad  as  she  is." 

"I  should  like  to  ask  what  the  devil  you've  been  trying 
to  do  ?"  asked  Weymouth,  facing  his  tormentor. 

"That's  a  fair  question,"  replied  Elijah  slowly.  "I'm  a 
queer  fish,  Weymouth.  Probably  you've  noticed  that. 
We're  both  of  us  investigators  along  our  own  lines.  You 
write  for  an  exclusive  public;  I  write  for  a  one-man  au 
dience — myself.  Well,  this  has  been  in  the  way  of  an  ex 
periment  in — matrimonial  psychology." 

Weymouth  slightly  raised  his  brows. 

"You  don't  understand  me  ?  To  put  it  plainer :  I'm  writ 
ing  a  book  about  women.  It's  called  Limitations.  I  don't 
know  any  women  but  Sophie — don't  care  to  know  any 
others — but  I  think  I  know  her  pretty  well." 

Elijah  Emmett  paused  and  pressed  a  button  under  the 
table.  When  the  butler  had  appeared  he  commanded 
shortly : 

"Bring  in  another  bottle  !    Then  you  may  go !" 

And  when  the  man  had  shown  a  cobwebby  label  to  his 
master,  and  left  the  bottle  uncorked  between  two  glasses, 
Emmett  explained: 

"This  is  old  tawny  port — eighteen-seventeen.  It's  out  of 
fashion  and  so  am  I.  We'll  split  the  bottle  between  us." 

He  filled  the  glasses  brimming  full,  and  held  the  topaz 
liquid  to  the  light. 

"To  our  escape!"  he  pledged.  Weymouth  was  ashamed 
of  himself,  yet  he  tossed  the  toast  off  with  alacrity. 

"Weymouth,  there's  nothing  that  lives  or  breathes  that 
can  look  dignified  in  a  false  position.  It's  like  a  Church  of 
England  clergyman  trying  to  ride  a  motor  cycle " 

"What's  that?"  asked  his  guest,  sitting  up  as  though  a 
cold  hand  had  touched  him.  "Would  you  mind  saying  that 
again  ?" 


THUNDER  155 


"Like  a  Church  of  England  clergyman  trying  to  ride  a 
motor  cycle." 

"By  George,  that's  queer !"  cried  Weymouth ;  and  again : 
"By  George !  Unless  I'm  mistaken  I've  heard " 

"Heard  Sophie  say  it  several  times?" 

Weymouth  faintly  nodded. 

"Quite  possibly.  And  that's  the  point  I'm  getting  at — • 
my  experiment  in  matrimonial  psychology.  Weymouth, 
we've  got  to  talk  quite  candidly,,  as  men  must  when  they're 
similarly  interested.  Now  tell  me  this :  Just  when  did  you 
begin  to  lose  interest  in  my  wife?" 

"That  would  be  rather  an  ungentlemanly  thing  to  discuss, 
wouldn't  it  ?"  inquired  Sophie's  quondam  lover. 

"Probably.  Don't  let  that  stand  in  your  way.  I've  met: 
very  few  gentlemen  in  my  lifetime — and  none  of  them 
have  had  anything  to  say  worth  repeating.  What  I  want 
is  facts." 

"Well,  if  it  comes  down  to  a  bald  confession,  I'll  admit," 
replied  Weymouth,  "that  she  began  to  bore  me  slightly 
about  two  weeks  after  we  began  our  probation." 

"Humph !"  Emmett's  grunt  was  filled  with  satisfaction. 
"That's  about  the  time,  I  should  say.  In  what  way  did  she 
bore  you?" 

"I  was  slightly  disappointed — not  so  much  at  first.  But 
it  began  to  dawn  upon  me  that  I  was  either  losing  my  taste 
for  wit  or  Sophie  was  losing  her  point  of  view.  You  see, 
I  was  inordinately  interested  in  her  from  the  first  because 
she  had  positively  her  own  way  of  looking  at  things  and 
expressing  what  she  saw.  I  hate  dull  women.  That  was 
what  drew  me  to  her — she  was  a  shining  difference.  But 
after  you  began  your — your  experiment  with  us — and  I 
could  see  her  as  often  as  I  liked  away  from  you,  it  seemed 
to  me  her  mind  was — what  shall  I  call  it? — thinning  out. 
Where  once  there  were  ten  thoughts  to  the  minute,  there 
was  less  than  one  to  the  hour.  Then  she  began  visibly 
struggling  to  make  good.  She  began  to  repeat  herself." 


156  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"No  clever  woman  ever  repeats  herself — to  the  same 
man,"  grinned  Emmett.  "Let  me  fill  your  glass  again." 

"Finally  it  got  to  be  positively  distressing.  We  would 
spend  hours  together  groping  desperately  for  something  to 
say.  It  got  so  I  dreaded  to  hear  her  speak,  for  fear  she 
would  come  out  with  something  so  threadbare  that " 

"Ha !"  Emmett  uttered  a  one-syllable  laugh.  "She  was 
now  delving  down  to  the  subbromidic  stratum.  Was  that 
toward  the  end  ?" 

"Two  or  three  weeks  ago.  I  avoided  going  to  see  her 
as  much  as  I  could.  I  was  still  in  love  with  her  and  hoped 
against  hope.  No  use.  The  brilliance  of  her  imagination 
had  evaporated.  You  will  pardon  my  saying  so,  but  she 
was  dull  as  ditch  water." 

"And  you  weren't  much  better?"  snapped  Emmett  sud 
denly. 

"I — I  never  looked  at  it  in  that  way,"  he  confessed.  "I 
must  have  had  a  pretty  hard  time  with  nothing  to  work 
on." 

"Now  I'm  going  to  show  you  something,"  pursued  the 
elder  man  in  the  same  cross-examining  tone.  "I  am  going 
to  show  you  something  and  ask  one  or  two  more  questions." 

He  leaned  bulkily  down  and  fished  from  under  the  table 
a  small  portfolio,  such  as  lawyers  employ  for  the  carrying 
of  documents.  Rapidly  he  unbuckled  the  straps  and 
brought  out  a  thick,  typewritten  manuscript,  in  size  and 
character  very  much  like  the  one  he  had  been  blue-pencilling 
upon  their  first  interview  up  in  the  library. 

"This  is  my  book,  Limitations,  so  far  as  it  has  gone. 
Let's  look  at  page  one-thirty-one."  He  pulled  the  sheet 
from  its  place  and  laid  it  on  the  table  before  them. 

"Now,  Weymouth,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  read  the 
ninth  line  from  the  top — here."  He  indicated  the  place 
with  his  broad  thumb. 

"  'Woman  has  always  occupied  a  position  of  priest 
hood,'  "  he  read  aloud,  "  'standing  before  an  inner  shrine 
and  guarding  a  sanctity  that  is  essential  to  civilisation.  To 


THUNDER  157 


many  of  them,  in  their  modern  aspects,  freedom  is  merely 
a  delightful  joy  ride.  She  rides  astride  upon  her  rights, 
and  the  aspect,  I  am  compelled  to  say,  is  like  that  of  a 
Church  of  England  clergyman  mounted  upon  a  motor 
cycle.'  " 

Weymouth  looked  up  blankly  at  Emmett's  face,  stonily 
amused. 

"There's  a  lot  more,"  insisted  Emmett,  "and  I'd  have  no 
trouble  showing  you  Sophie's  pet  epigrams  and  philoso 
phies  if  I  wanted  to  bore  you  with  my  work.  There's  the 
one  about  married  couples  not  liking  each  other — eight 
chances  to  one — or  the  statement  that  too  many  people 
want  socialism  the  way  they  see  Chinatown — by  being  taken 
round  at  a  dollar  a  head  by  a  man  with  a  megaphone, 
or " 

"Has  she  stooped  to  that?"  Weymouth  half  whispered. 
"Stolen  thunder !" 

"Oh,  we  shouldn't  mind  that.  Every  echo  steals  thunder 
and  imitates  it  faintly.  And,  of  course,  you  must  realise  by 
now  that  Sophie  is " 

"An  echo?"  inquired  Weymouth. 

"An  echo !"  echoed  Emmett.  "She  has  one  of  those 
minds  which  can  only  give  back  the  sounds  they  receive." 

"I  see,"  grunted  Weymouth.  "She's  changed  so  in  her 
absence  from  you,  because " 

"She's  been  shut  off  from  the  base  of  supplies.  Her 
mind  went  dry.  It's  been  a  shame  to  take  my  words  out 
of  her  pretty  mouth.  She  has  always  echoed  so  delight 
fully!  Really,  Weymouth,  with  her  beauty  and  the  way 
she  has  with  her  it  has  been  more  than  worth  the  trouble." 

"It  would  be  a  crime  against  art  to  stop  her  now,"  sug 
gested  Weymouth,  "like  taking  the  lines  away  from  a  great 
actress." 

"Oh,  bless  her!"  laughed  Emmett  heartily.  "I  wouldn't 
have  the  brutality  to  do  that !  In  a  week  she'll  be  bristling 
with  ideas  again — my  ideas.  And  I'll  give  her  all  the  phi 
losophy  and  bright  paragraphs  she  can  use,  just  as  I'd  give 


158  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

her  money  until  I  went  bankrupt.  I  don't  think  you  realise 
how  much  I  love  her,  Weymouth." 

The  young  critic  was  amazed  at  the  intense  earnestness 
with  which  this  peculiar  man  made  the  last  statement. 

"I'll  have  a  little  more  of  that  excellent  port,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  suggested  Weymouth  in  a  voice  that  was  dry  as  dust. 
Emmett's  hand  shook  slightly  as  he  poured  out  the  liquor. 

"She  used  to  take  me  round  a  good  deal  in  society  when 
we  were  first  married,"  went  on  Emmett.  "She  acted  as 
my  convoy  because  she  had  the  position  and  I  had  the 
money.  I  never  cared  much  for  that  sort  of  thing,  because 
I  never  could  talk  to  advantage  to  more  than  one  person 
at  a  time — and  I've  only  found  one  in  ten  worth  talking  to. 
But  I  stood  this  dinner  business  for  a  while.  The  thing  that 
really  attracted  me  on  these  occasions  was  Sophie.  It  gave 
me  a  sort  of  rare,  epicurean  delight  to  sit  a  few  places  away 
from  her  and  hear  her  strewing  epigrams — my  epigrams — 
right  and  left  like  handfuls  of  jewels.  People  are  often 
careless  with  other  people's  valuables,  and  Sophie  was  a 
spendthrift.  I  never  really  appreciated  how  good  my  lines 
were  until  I  heard  Sophie  delivering  them  in  that  wonderful 
voice  of  hers.  I  used  to  go  to  dinners  that  mummified  me 
where  I  sat,  just  for  the  exquisite  joy  of  hearing  myself 
quoted — quoted  without  quotation  marks — by  the  most 
charming  little  actress  I  ever  met. 

"But  I  was  punished  for  it  at  last.  It  got  round  that 
people  endured  poor,  stupid  Emmett  for  the  sake  of  get 
ting  his  brilliant  wife.  Then  I  decided  to  let  Sophie  do  it 
all.  I've  stayed  home  ever  since." 

They  sat  a  while  regarding  the  tablecloth.  The  topaz 
liquid  in  the  bottle  was  fast  reaching  its  nadir. 

"Mr.  Emmett,  if  you  don't  mind  telling  me,"  asked  the 
younger  man,  "how  a  clever  man  like  you — for  I'm  be 
ginning  to  think  you're  a  stupendous  person — ever  came 
,  » 

"To  be  fooled  the  way  you  were  ?"  grinned  his  host. 
"Well,  that's  one  way  of  putting  it.     I  wonder  how  you 


THUNDER  159 


came  to  marry  her.  Whom  was  she  echoing  when  you 
first  met  her  ?" 

"Her  father,"  Emmett  replied.  "He  was  a  remarkable 
individual  and  gave  her  enough  ideas  to  keep  her  going  until 
she  could  tap  my  mine." 

Weymouth  pushed  back  his  chair.  He  had  heard  the 
truth  and  must  take  it  for  what  it  was  worth. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  volunteered  rather  heavily.  "There 
aren't  many  men  who  would  speak  out  like  this.  Of  course 
it's  been  rather  crushing  for  me.  I  thought  I  understood 
women 

"You  did?  You  poor,  lost  lamb!"  Emmett  let  his 
friendly  hand  rest  a  moment  on  his  victim's  shoulder.  "I 
don't  think  you  understand  much  of  anything.  You  clever 
fellows — professionally  clever  fellows — are  usually  pretty 
stupid  when  it  comes  down  to  the  facts  of  life.  I  don't 
suppose,  now  it's  all  over,  that  you  have  an  inkling  as  to 
why  I've  done  all  this  to  make  you  and  Sophie  tired  of  each 
other?" 

"I  really  believe  you're  fond  of  her !"  gasped  the  dupe  of 
fate. 

"Fond  of  her!  My  dear  boy,  if  she'd  stayed  away  two 
days  longer — well,  your  case  would  have  been  simplified  to 
courting  a  pretty  widow.  I  don't  think  you'll  comprehend 
what  I'm  going  to  say,  but  I'll  tell  you  as  plainly  as  I  know 
how.  I  adore  Sophie  for  exactly  what  she  is — simple  and 
unreasonable  and  feminine — utterly  lacking  in  that  abomi 
nable  thing  called  cleverness.  On  the  days  when  we're  alone 
together  we  drop  all  pretence  and  chatter  like  children. 
She  takes  me  out  of  my  maddening  theories.  She  rests  me 
and  makes  me  feel  young  again.  I  don't  care  how  she  ca 
vorts  in  public,  like  a  charming  little  animated  phonograph. 
She  doesn't  waste  any  of  that  foolishness  on  me.  She 
saves  it  for  people  who  aren't  discerning  enough  to  know 
glass  from  diamonds.  But  when  she's  home,  she's  Sophie — 
just  entirely  Sophie.  We  frolic  and  talk  nonsense  together. 
And  when  the  servants  are  out  we  commandeer  the  kitchen, 


160  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

and  cook  our  own  little  dinners.  She's  quite  a  wonderful 
cook." 

Emmett  paused,  arrested  by  an  idea.  His  eyes  were 
twinkling  with  enthusiasm. 

"Weymouth,  you've  never  really  tasted  a  curried  squab 
until  you've  tried  Sophie's !" 

Her  reformed  lover  smothered  a  groan.  He  had  lost  a 
comet  and  found  a  curry  cook ! 

"Why  don't  you  come  round  Wednesday  night  and  have 
a  family  dinner  with  us?"  Elijah's  voice  rasped  on  his  re 
flections. 

"I — I  should  like  to.  But  don't  you  think  it  would  be 
better  if— 

"You  and  I  ate  alone?  Nonsense!  I  want  you  to  come 
when  Sophie's  here.  It  would  hurt  her  feelings  if  you 
didn't." 


V 
THE  GOAT 


ON  the  top  floor  of  a  damaged  apartment  house,  in 
that  zone  of  New  York  which  the  psychological  map- 
maker  should  colour  a  watery  claret-pink,  expres 
sive  of  the  state  of  mind  therein  prevailing,  a  goddess  of  a 
woman  sat  drumming  busily  at  a  rented  piano.  She  was 
wearing  a  light  yellow  wrapper,  and  as  her  vocal  notes 
progressed  up  an  invisible  stairway — "yah-oo-ah-eeee" — 
struggling,  agonised  but  eager,  from  chest  tones  to  head 
tones,  the  lovely  lines  of  her  milk-white  neck,  below  great 
quantities  of  dusky  hair,  were  pleasantly  revealed  to  her 
husband.  Dumpy  little  man  that  he  was,  he  stood  in  an 
attitude  of  critical  regard  at  the  door  of  their  kitchenette, 
his  left  hand  dangling  a  moist  dishcloth,  while  his  right 
hand,  clutching  a  half-dried  tablespoon,  waved  cadence  to 
the  flight. 

"Bully!"  he  encouraged,  adjusting  the  blue-gingham 
apron  under  his  armpits.  But  the  mind  of  Adelia  Rumley 
was  apparently  concentrated  upon  her  vocal  cords,  which 
were  now  executing  a  rapid  downstairs  movement — "ee-ah- 
oo-ya-a-ah!" 

Robert  W.  Rumley,  seasoned  to  unencouragement  in 
the  field  of  art,  returned  meekly  to  the  kitchenette  and  pur 
sued  his  daily  practical  task  of  "redding  up"  the  breakfast 
dishes.  To  this  indignity  he  had  long  been  a  martyr,  re 
ceiving  for  his  pains  the  martyr's  regular  salary  of  thorns. 
Yet  the  cruel  stings  gave  to  him  still  the  stimulus  of  hope. 
Famed  sopranos,  whose  notes  he  had  heard  surging  forth 

161 


162  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

from  the  mahogany  front  doors  of  friendly  phonographs, 
enchanted  the  world  with  no  such  angelic  strains  as  those 
which  floated  to  him  hourly  from  the  throat  of  his  adored 
one.  Strangely  enough,  she  did  not  seem  to  get  on;  but 
there  were  many  amateur  savants,  in  the  Bohemian  zone 
wherein  they  dwelt,  who  could  account  for  that.  "Noth 
ing  great  was  ever  done  in  a  hurry,"  the  insurgent  sculptor, 
Pedro  McKonkie,  had  often  whinnied  in  his  ear.  And  from 
the  lips  of  Ambrose  Blaize,  musical  critic  by  day,  poet  by 
night,  had  come  the  tribute :  "Genuine  Art — and  all  true 
Art  is  genuine — must  be  gained  upon  the  heights  of  blood 
and  tears." 

Ambrose  had  said  this  so  often  that  Robert  W.  Rum- 
ley,  whose  knowledge  of  life  had  been  gathered  over  the 
counter  of  a  village  hardware  store,  had  learned  the  lines 
by  heart.  He  was  willing  to  stand  for  the  blood  and  tears, 
he  reflected  loyally.  It  was  only  the  hard  pinch  that  wor 
ried  him,  for  he  was  bitterly  unwilling  to  see  her  suffer. 
And  things  were  getting  pretty  close  for  the  Rumleys. 

The  dangling  of  the  human  hand  into  hot  soapy  water  is 
wont  to  bring  a  dreamy  stimulation  to  the  brain.  And  as 
the  vocalist's  husband  turned  a  steaming  flood  into  a  panful 
of  nicked  chinaware,  he  cogitated  idly  but  without  comfort. 

There  was  an  expensive  music  teacher  still  to  pay.  The 
hospitality  which  their  metropolitan  life  seemed  to  demand 
of  them  was  forcing  the  grocery  bill  up,  up,  as  rapidly  as 
the  soarings  of  Adelia's  musical  scale.  And  the  circle  of 
free  souls  who  gathered  about  them  nightly  and  gibbered  in 
a  dialect  Robert  had  given  up  trying  to  understand  had 
an  insinuating  habit  of  confiding  financial  difficulties  at  the 
occasional  times  when  vulgar  money  seemed  to  them  some 
thing  other  than  the  sordid  foe  of  Art.  Lofty  minds,  who 
was  Rumley  to  permit  their  earthbound  torments?  Gold, 
to  them,  was  only  a  means  to  an  end.  Adelia  had  struggled 
to  make  that  point  clear  as  his  bank  account  lightened  to  a 
feather's  gravity. 

The  kitchen  was  becoming  very  moist  and  warm  as  Rum- 


THE  GOAT  163 


ley  mooned  over  his  clattering  toil.  He  paused  and  lighted 
a  poor  man's  cigarette.  A  tin  can,  which  had  once  guarded 
its  freight  of  evaporated  cream,  he  tossed  despondently  into 
a  yawning  garbage  pail. 

"Bob,  dear!"  The  aspiring  notes  had  hardened  to  a 
querulous  call. 

"Yes,  dearie !" 

"Can't  you  be  a  little  quiet?" 

"Excuse  me,  honey."  Rumley's  tone  was  contrite  as  he 
resumed  his  household  cares,  making  clumsy  efforts  to  sup 
press  the  senseless  habit  of  china  cups  to  clatter  against 
their  mates. 

It  had  been  over  a  year  now  since  the  Rumleys,  radiant, 
hopeful  pilgrims  to  the  shrine,  had  shaken  from  their  shoes 
the  colourless  dust  of  Bushelville,  where,  as  Adelia  had 
truthfully  explained,  "there  was  no  appreciation."  It  was 
he  who  urged  that  rash  departure ;  for  the  enchantment  of  a 
honeymoon  was  still  upon  him.  It  had  been  scarce  three 
months  since,  sitting  in  the  Rumley  pew,  he  had  first  bowed 
down  in  worship  to  an  image  and  a  voice  which — theoreti 
cally — had  no  place  for  man  in  that  house  of  prayer.  The 
leading  hardware  dealer  of  Bushelville,  he  was  quite  eligible 
to  look  upon  that  radiant  vision  who  each  Sunday  bade  him 
"Flee  as  a  bird !"  as,  turning  beautiful  topaz  eyes  toward 
the  gates  of  song,  she  stood  divinely  fair  beside  the  small 
pipe  organ,  Bushelville's  boasted  pride.  From  the  hour  of 
their  meeting  he  had  wallowed,  and  she,  angel  of  the  sweet 
acceptance,  had  stooped  to  raise  him  to  her  level.  Result : 
Mr.  Jones,  Bushelville's  official  organist,  had  sweetened  one 
June  day  by  an  appropriate  two- four  selection  from  the 
works  of  Mendelssohn. 

"She  has  voice !"  the  congratulatory  Mr.  Jones  had  in 
formed  him  at  the  wedding  reception.  "A  few  faults  .  .  . 
training  .  .  .  there's  no  field  in  Bushelville." 

And  it  was  in  the  month  of  September,  his  hardware 
business  sold  at  a  discount,  a  few  items  of  inherited  real 
estate  liberally  mortgaged,  that  Robert  W.  Rumley  had 


164  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

heard  his  prodigy,  for  the  last  time  before  a  Bushelville 
audience,  trill  My  Rosary  as  the  well-wishing  elite  of  the 
town  gathered  sentimentally  for  farewell. 

It  had  been  a  queer  sort  of  year  since  then ! 

"Poor  child — looks  tired !"  mused  Rumley,  dousing  his 
cigarette  stump  in  the  moisture  of  his  galley  sink. 

The  vocalist  in  the  large  bleak  studio  room  was  now 
executing  a  sort  of  musical  pyramid,  climbing  a  laborious 
"O-o-o-o"  up  one  side  and  sliding  an  ecstatic  "Ah-h-h-h!" 
down  on  the  other.  Rumley  admitted  that  he  had  never 
until  recently  considered  the  price  of  Art.  Madame  Lu- 
netti,  who  guaranteed  to  make  operatic  stars,  given  suf 
ficient  time  at  so  much  per  lesson,  continued  to  flatter  and 
to  temporise.  Mrs.  Rumley  was  young,  her  voice  required 
placing — and  it  was  not  disinterested  friendship  which 
prompted  Madame  Lunetti  to  seek  so  carefully,  so  tirelessly, 
its  true  and  ultimate  place. 

The  great  city,  which  the  optimist  in  the  kitchenette  still 
viewed  with  the  starry  eyes  of  hope,  had  considered  him 
no  more  seriously  in  a  business  way  than  in  an  artistic 
guise.  He  had  held  and  lost  several  small  jobs  in  retail 
hardware  establishments,  he  had  sought  vainly  for  capital 
with  which  to  put  on  the  market  the  humble  household 
inventions  which  bore  the  Rumley  name — Rumley  Eraser, 
Rumley  Noiseless  Lawn  Mower.  He  had  accomplished 
nothing  in  the  past  few  weeks,  except  to  work  up  the  details 
of  a  device  which  had  at  least  made  Adelia's  morning  ex 
ercises  less  a  trial  to  her  nerves — the  Rumley  Radiator 
Silencer.  It  was  the  promise  of  another  serene  hour  of 
filing  and  scraping  at  this  complicated  metal  bit,  an  hour 
of  repose  in  the  little  workshop  off  the  kitchenette,  that 
caused  Rumley  to  clutter  hurriedly  through  with  his  dish 
washing.  That  littered,  dusty  den  out  there,  what  a  sanc 
tuary  it  was  to  him  when  the  inhabitants  of  Adelia's  world 
came  to  praise  the  Eternal  Beauties  in  the  language  of  angry 
magpies ! 

Meanwhile,    Robert    W.    Rumley    washed    dishes,    ac- 


THE  GOAT  165 

r"""""'  """"^  - 

cording  to  his  lot.    Adelia  wasn't  strong,  and  some  one  must 
keep  the  house  in  order. 

"Dearie !"  came  again  the  petulant  summons. 

"Yes,  honey !"  He  wiped  his  hands  on  the  gingham 
apron  and  came  distrustfully  forward.  Already  he  sus 
pected  that  his  goddess  had  sensed  the  gloomy  tenor  of  his 
thoughts. 

"The  gasman  was  here  twice  yesterday.  He  bothered 
me  to  death  just  as  Mr.  Blaize  and  Mr.  Poole  came  in.  It 
was  horribly  mortifying.  Seems  to  me  you  could  leave  a 
little  change  round  the  house  when  you  go  away  gad 
ding " 

"I  had  to  keep  a  date  with  the  International  Metal  Con 
trivance  people,"  he  apologised. 

"Did  they  promise  anything?"  She  was  fingering  her 
score  dreamily. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  ask  for  a  job.    I  went  to  show  my  silencer." 

"Well,  I  hope  they'll  make  your  fortune,"  she  sniffed, 
never  looking  up  from  the  sheet  music  she  was  turning. 

"The  engineer,  he  attends  to  the  patent  end  of  the  con 
cern.  He'll  be  back  from  New  kochelle  this  afternoon." 

"I'm  surprised."  Adelia  had  learned  a  trick  of  barbed 
marksmanship  from  her  cultured  circle,  and  it  was  growing 
habitual  with  her  to  choose  her  husband's  patient  skin  as 
target  for  her  archery. 

"I've  had  the  thing  in  the  shop,  reassembling  it,"  he  went 
on,  seemingly  unwounded.  "I'm  putting  a  new  type  of 
gasket  in  the  air  chamber.  That'll  keep  the  International 
people  guessing.  You  know,  they  control  everything  in 
this  line. 

"Will  their  line  include  paying  for  the  gas?"  she  snapped  ; 
then  added  more  gently:  "Bob,  I'm  all  nerves  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Sorry,  honey."  He  laid  a  stubby  hand  on  her  beauti 
fully  rounded  shoulder.  She  yielded  no  response. 

"Ambrose  Blaize  and  Hildreth  Sunder  are  coming  in  to 
lunch,"  she  sighed  at  last  wearily.  "Anything  in  the  flat?" 


166  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"We're  all  out  of  vermouth." 

"Can't  you  get  some?" 

"Y-yes.    Or  maybe  we  could  make  orange  juice  do." 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  likes  his  cocktails  that  way," 
she  replied,  pitching  her  voice  to  a  tone  of  rebuke. 

"Say,  Delia,  I  think  that  highbrow  has  got  his  nerve ! 
He's  using  the  place  as  a  sort  of  charity  boarding  house. 
I  don't  object  to  cooking  for  him  and  shaking  up  the  drinks 
day  and  night  to  his  order.  But  I  can't  see  where  it's  up 
to  him  to  stick  up  his  nose  at  my  style  of  mixing  cocktails." 

"Robert !"  Her  mysterious  topaz  eyes  came  suddenly 
upon  him  in  an  accent  of  horror.  "How  can  you  talk  that 
way?" 

"I  know.  He's  helped  you  a  lot  in  your  career,  and  in 
troduced  us  into  his  set " 

"It's  not  a  circle  every  one  can  belong  to,  my  dear,"  she 
assured  him,  and  went  on  fingering  the  ivory  keys. 

"I  don't  just  quite  get  the  life  here,  honey,"  he  shame 
facedly  confessed.  "To  play  the  game,  you've  got  to  take 
the  cards  as  they  come,  I'll  admit ;  and  if  it's  what  you  need 
to  build  up  your  Art — oh,  I  ain't  saying  a  word !" 

"That's  a  dear,"  she  relented,  and  permitted  her  earnest, 
uninitiated  spouse  to  touch  her  ever  so  lightly  on  the  lips. 

"What  was  that  German  stuff  you  were  singing  about  an 
hour  ago?"  he  ventured  by  way  of  penance. 

"Still  wie  die  Nacht,  you  mean  ?"  asked  she  as  her  fingers 
made  rather  uncertain  work  of  Bohm's  introduction  to  love 
and  ocean's  deeps. 

''Still  wie  die  Nacht, 
Tief  wie  das  Meer " 


"What  does  it  mean  ?"  Rumley  inquired,  adoring  her  with 
eyes  which  were  round  and  blue  as  a  child's. 

"Still  as  the  night,  deep  as  the  sea,  so  thy  love  must  be," 
she  answered  dreamily. 

"Oh."  He  waited  a  moment  and  shyly  cleared  his  throat. 
"Say,  Delia,  sing  it  again,  will  you?" 


THE  GOAT  167 


Once  more  her  hands  brought  the  still,  sweet  water  music 
from  the  keys.  Tide  upon  tide,  chord  upon  chord,  swelled 
the  prelude.  Then  the  maddeningly  expected  thing  hap 
pened. 

Bang-bang-bang ! 

A  Hunnish  monster  of  a  noise,  it  smote  upon  the  nerves 
in  a  horrible  tattoo,  violating  the  aesthetic  sense  like  the 
metallic  salute  of  ironworkers  caressing  the  skeleton  of  a 
skyscraper  with  heavy  sledges. 

"Oh!"  Hysterically  the  pretty  songstress  raised  her 
hands  to  her  ears.  "That  radiator — merciful  heavens!" 

"Full  head  o'  steam  on  this  morning,"  called  out  Rum- 
ley,  his  chubby  face  lighting  with  a  new  enthusiasm.  "The 
silencer's  in  shape  now — just  watch  me!" 

Clang-boom-clash ! 

Louder  and  louder  rang  the  chorus  of  invisible  steel- 
smiths.  In  a  moment  the  inspired  Rumley  had  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  his  workshop  and  was  back  again.  Skating 
hastily  over  bare  spaces  of  floor  he  advanced  on  the  offend 
ing  radiator,  a  cup-shaped  billet  of  metal  borne  threaten 
ingly  in  his  right  hand. 

Bang !    G-g-r-r-r !    Bang-pang ! 

The  army  of  the  steam  shouted  to  him  a  loud  defiance. 

"Just  a  minute,  honey !"  he  reassured  her  as,  his  face  now 
purple  with  concentration,  he  leaned  over  and  screwed  his 
patent  appliance  to  the  valve-end  of  the  boisterous  heater. 

With  a  strangled  growl  the  noise  died  away  into  silence. 
Triumphantly  Robert  W.  Rumley,  inventor,  stood  view 
ing  his  work.  Secure  in  his  protection  his  wife  pursued  the 
running  chords  of  her  prelude. 

"Still  wie  die  Nacht!"  she  chanted  clearly. 

Robert's  face  was  radiant  beyond  compare. 

II 

Rumley  paid  for  the  dinner  that  night  at  Vermicellio's. 
•Mainly  he  remembered  that  the  claret  had  been  rank  and 


168  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

the  conversation  ranker.  The  painter  of  queer,  pale-green 
miniatures,  Miss  Hildreth  Sunder,  who  chose  to  wear  her 
hair  bobbed  over  a  face  which  was  all  concaves  like  a  new 
moon,  occupied  the  place  next  his  and,  being  half  a  yard 
taller  than  he,  was  able  to  talk  over  his  head,  physically  as 
well  as  intellectually. 

"Baskt — oo !"  she  chirped  at  Pedro  McKonkie,  insurgent 
sculptor,  whose  jaws  were  knifelike  and  whose  black  hair 
fell  a  trifle  longer  than  Miss  Sunder's  own. 

Adelia,  her  bewitching  topaz  eyes  turned,  now  in  laughter, 
now  in  admiration,  was  easily  the  prettiest  woman  in  the 
room.  Rumley  felt  this  was  the  sense  of  obscure  proprie 
torship  which  a  clownish  fellow  must  enjoy  upon  inherit 
ing  a  priceless  object  of  art.  She  sat  beside  Blaize  and 
looked  at  no  one  else,  as  garlic  called  unto  garlic  through 
out  the  length  and  breadth  of  Vermicellio's  feast. 

Ambrose  Blaize  was  good-looking  in  a  bushy  sort  of 
way.  His  reddish-brown  mane  differed  from  the  compet 
ing  manes  round  the  table  in  that  it  displayed  the  beauty  of 
the  horizontal  line.  Bolingbroke  Squashe,  designer  of  damp 
landscapes,  wore  his  tow-coloured  hair  in  the  manner  of 
Buster  Brown.  Miss  Sunder's  coiffure  remotely  resembled 
the  palm  thatch  on  a  Kafir  hut.  Pedro  McKonkie  had  ap 
parently  cajoled  his  barber  into  trimming  his  locks  into  a 
straight-edged  form  that  gave  to  him  the  appearance  of 
wearing  some  regal  Egyptian  headdress  of  patent  leather. 
But  Blaize  was  always  different. 

The  capillary  ornament  upon  the  head  of  Blaize  shot  out 
sidewise  and  frontwise  in  tight,  curly  masses,  like  the  foli 
age  of  those  picturesque  cypress  trees  which,  for  ages  en 
during  the  trade  winds  of  a  California  sea,  have  become 
flat  on  top  and  ornate  at  the  edges.  Blaize's  mouth  was 
thin  and  small,  his  eyes  wide  and  expressive.  When  he 
spoke  it  was  like  the  rich  sighing  of  summer  winds  through 
an  empty  aqueduct.  He  was  endowed  with  the  amphibious 
gift  of  expressing  himself  in  two  different  ways  at  the  same 
time,  sweetly  with  his  lips,  eloquently  with  his  eyes. 


THE  GOAT  169 


"Let's  go  over  to  the  flat,"  at  last  suggested  Rumley.  It 
was  about  the  only  audible  remark  he  had  uttered  in  this 
sitting  upon  the  oniony  Parnassus.  And  the  suggestion 
seemed  to  spread  the  quick  fires  of  emulation  among  the 
feasters.  It  was  check-paying  time,  and  every  bottle  at 
the  table  had  been  emptied  of  its  claret. 

As  they  walked  home,  under  a  drizzling  rain,  little  Freddie 
Poole,  excellently  tailored  in  a  pin-checked  suit  which 
showed  an  increasing  rust  among  the  pins  at  knees  and 
elbows,  took  Rumley  familiarly  t)y  the  arm  and  snuggled 
under  his  umbrella.  Poole's  intoxication  was  just  strik 
ing  its  general  average.  Engaging,  ne'er-do-well  younger 
son  of  a  good  English  family,  he  lived  in  a  studio  some 
where  under  the  illusion  that  he  was  painting  something. 
He  was  not  shaggy  like  the  rest  of  Adelia's  friends,  and 
although  Rumley  hated  a  dude — which  Freddie  undoubtedly 
still  struggled  to  be — yet  Adelia's  husband  honoured  the 
scapegrace  for  the  shortness  of  his  hair  and  the  bluntness 
of  his  opinions." 

"Blaizie's  going  strong  on  soul  harmonies  to-night,"  Fred 
die  rambled  along.  "Blaizie  is  very  musical — musical 
comedy — if  you  follow  me." 

"You're  going  kind  of  strong  yourself,  Freddie,"  Rum- 
ley  suggested,  fixing  a  paternal  hand  under  the  English 
man's  elbow  in  order  that  he  might  not  collide  with  one  of 
the  sentry  ash  cans  which  lined  their  way. 

"I'm  strong  on  one  thing,  Blaizie's  strong  on  another.  My 
weakness  is  liquor." 

"What's  Blaizie's  ?"  was  Rumley's  obvious  question. 

"My  word,  here  we  are !"  The  vanguard  of  Vermicellio's 
legions  was  turning  in  at  the  gargoyled  and  greasy  brown- 
stone  arch  which  guarded  the  apartment  where  the  Rumleys 
lived. 

"I  say,  Rumley,  old  top,  you've  got  some  of  that  fire 
water  in  the  ice-box — eh,  what  ?" 

Freddie  had  shuffled  off  his  favourite  theme  in  the  antici 
pation  of  his  dearest  weakness. 


170  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^ ^~ — 

The  guests  were  already  making  themselves  at  home  in 
the  big,  bleak  studio  room.  Couples  were  seated,  paired 
off,  heads  leaning  bush-to-thatch,  on  the  numerous  divans 
which  edged  the  walls.  McKonkie,  the  insurgent,  was  en 
gaging  his  soul  to  that  of  Miss  Sunder,  the  two  being  seated 
on  a  small  chest  right  below  the  shelf  where  contorted  the 
gymnastic  plaster  sketch  of  McKonkie's  first  masterpiece, 
The  Vampire  Resurrection.  Bolingbroke  Squashe  slightly 
disarrayed  his  Buster  Brown  adornment  in  order  to  inform 
a  little  lady,  worshipping  him  under  her  Mona  Lisa  bangs, 
that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  colour.  Pedro  McKonkie, 
in  his  corner,  assured  an  equally  reverential  lady  that  "all 
life  is  a  background." 

Adelia  was  seated  on  the  piano  stool,  Ambrose  Blaize 
hovering  tenderly  above. 

"Nothing  can  be  unbeautiful  that  your  eyes  have  seen," 
he  was  lisping  in  his  sweetest  wood-note  as  Rumley  came 
upon  them.  Her  face  held  the  rhapsodical,  hypnotised  look 
peculiar  to  ladies  art-bound  in  this  charmed  circle.  Rumley 
broke  the  eye-locked  spell  by  a  brash  inquiry. 

"Drinks  now,  dearie  ?"  he  ventured. 

Adelia  looked  sharply  round.  Blaize  straightened  up, 
the  raptures  of  a  yearning  saint  which  had  but  now  paled 
his  cheeks  giving  way  to  a  graceful  cynicism. 

"Oh,  anything,  bartender!"  he  faintly  smiled. 

"Bob,  dear,  you  ought  to  know  what  the  crowd  wants," 
she  supplemented  with  less  sarcasm  than  her  adorer. 

Rumley  drilled  meekly  away  to  the  kitchenette.  In  the 
depths  of  that  foody  compartment  he  beheld  the  figure  of 
a  young  man  in  a  pin-checked  suit,  stooping  down,  head 
completely  obscured  behind  the  door  of  the  ice  box. 

"Cherry  brandy,"  a  voice  from  the  depths  was  chanting. 
"Sweet,  sticky  benedictine — two  other  kinds  of  French  per 
fumery ' 

"What's  the  matter,  Freddie?"  Robert  W.  Rumley  in 
quired.  The  Englishman's  small,  flushed  face  came  forth 
from  its  ostrich  concealment. 


THE  GOAT  171 

^  ""  T3 

"Not  a  bally  drop  of  blessed  cognac,  dear  soul !" 

"Guess  it's  all  gone." 

"Oh,  no  matter.  Here's  rye.  The  Stars  and  Stripes  for 
ever — eh,  what?" 

"Say,  Freddie,"  said  the  unbefriended  host,  urged  by  his 
obsessing  spirit,  "what's  the  matter  with  Blaize  that  you're 
so  down  on  him?" 

"Silly  ass,  I  used  to  call  him  that.  But  no,  dear  boy — • 
by  no  means  silly  ass.  Wise  adder." 

Freddie  Poole  leaned  against  the  ice-box  door,  the  pic 
ture  of  a  gently  born,  well-reared  Englishman  shaking  him 
self  to  pieces  under  the  tearing  waste  of  alcohol. 

"Rummie,  old  pal,  I'm  a  bit  of  all  wrong  to-night.  No 
more  poison,  waspish  stings  from  me,  I  say.  We're  all 
brothers  and  sisters  and  mothers-in-law  in  the  sight  of 
heaven.  Peace,  peace!  Vive  I' Art!  and  all  that  sort  of  rot. 
Blaize?  To  the  philosophical  mind  he's  but  a  splotch  of 
pale  mauve  in  the  foreground  of  the  composition.  I  say, 
let's  bear  forth  the  rye  and  pour  it  into  the  bacchanal !" 

Suiting  action  to  word,  Freddie  strode  bravely  out,  the 
spirit  of  revelry,  bottled,  in  the  clasp  of  his  elbow. 

As  soon  as  Rumley  was  left  alone  in  the  kitchenette  he 
experienced,  for  the  first  time  in  years,  a  feeling  of  resent 
ment.  Clattering  glasses  upon  a  cheaply  lacquered  tray 
and  banging  soda  siphons  on  the  board  beside  them,  he 
wondered  just  what  drug  was  creeping  under  Adelia's  lovely 
skin.  Loiterers  of  the  Blaize  type  he  had  learned  to  call  by 
a  crude  name  in  the  bourgeois  atmosphere  of  Bushelville. 
Blaize  could  talk  circles  round  the  moon  and  bring  down  the 
stars  to  gem  the  silver-gilt  of  his  speech.  But  what  right 
had  he  to  stand  gaping  into  the  face  of  another  man's  wife 
and,  in  the  next  grimace,  address  her  husband  as  a  bar 
tender  ? 

Rumley  tottered  rapidly  into  the  studio  room,  the  hooked 
noses  of  three  siphons  looped  over  the  fingers  of  his  left 
hand,  a  trayful  of  tall  glasses  poised  dizzily  on  his  elevated 
right.  So  deep  was  he  in  the  thrall  of  uncomfortable  specu- 


172  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

lations  that  he  never  paused  for  apology  when  he  tunked 
the  sky-soaring  McKonkie,  with  a  glassy  crash,  on  the  very 
summit  of  his  patent-leather  headdress.  The  sculptor 
rubbed  the  wound  and  glowered,  but  Rumley  passed  on 
toward  the  isolated  pair  at  the  piano. 

"A  musical  critic  worthy  of  the  name  knows  these  facts," 
the  poet  was  breathing  his  soft  bassoon.  "In  my  years  of 
observation  I  have  seen  the  tragedy  repeated  over  and  over 
again — environment.  There  are  chains  of  freedom  in  the 
mating  of  harmonious  souls.  You  have  the  spirit  to  soar, 
but  your  wings  are  weighted.  There  is  no  progress  for  a 
woman,  tied  to — this." 

Expressively  Ambrose  Blaize  looked  over  his  shoulder 
and  caught  the  brief  but  menacing  figure  of  Nathaniel  W. 
Rumley  just  as  he  stood  at  his  elbow,  the  tray  of  glasses 
poised  as  if  to  spill  them  all,  a  clattering  rebuke,  upon  the 
offensive  rhapsodist. 

"Tied  to  what?"  asked  Rumley,  edging  closer. 

"My  dear  man,"  said  Ambrose,  twisting  his  little  mouth 
to  a  smile,  "your  behaviour  is — well,  comic,  shall  I  say  ?" 

"Say  what  you  damned  please !"  bawled  Adelia's  hus 
band,  brave  before  his  tormentor,  but  not  daring  to  look 
at  his  adored.  "I  don't  need  you  to  go  on  telling  my  wife 
what  she's  chained  to." 

"Bob,  dear,  you're  having  a  brain  storm,"  came  Adelia's 
soothing  voice,  and  Robert,  like  a  silly,  puffing  Atlas, 
bore  aloft  his  tray  and  departed  with  the  impression  that 
he  had  been  making  a  fool  of  himself. 

It  was  under  the  influence  of  an  artificial  calm  that  he 
played  Ganymede  to  this  thirsty  Parnassus.  From  guest  to 
guest  he  passed,  his  fingers  tingling  to  the  angry  squirting  of 
his  siphon.  As  he  poured  conciliatory  libations  before  the 
offended  shrine  of  Pedro  McKonkie,  he  felt  Adelia's  hand 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"Bob,"  she  whispered,  "come  into  the  workshop." 

It  was  hard  by  his  mechanic's  bench,  cluttered  with  sol 
dering  devices,  pliers,  metal-workers'  tools,  copper  filings, 


THE  GOAT  173 

that  she  confronted  him,  menacing  in  her  cerise  gown,  fire 
blazing  from  those  fine  topazes  that  could  beam  so  gently. 

"What  in  the  world  were  you  saying  to  Mr.  Blaize  ?"  she 
questioned  coldly. 

"I  can't  stand  that  durned  ladykiller  any  longer.  He's 
getting  too  fresh.  He's " 

"Robert,  are  you  aware  you're  insulting  me  by  your  in 
ferences  ?" 

"Darling!"  Robert  was  again  the  husband  of  a  god 
dess.  He  strove  to  take  her  hand,  but  she  tore  it  from  his 
grasp.  "Never,  honey,  never  for  an  instant ' 

"Well,  you've  offended  him  for  life.  He's  going  away — 
unless  you  hurry." 

"I  will,  dearie,  I  will !"  At  the  words  Rumley  skated 
forth,  eager  to  intercept  the  poet's  progress  toward  the 
door. 

"I'm  sorry,  Blaize,"  he  blurted  out,  seizing  the  cool  hand 
which  reached  for  the  doorknob.  "I  guess  I  misunderstood. 
I've  been  worried  all  day  and  sort  of  peevish  about  every 
thing." 

A  vast  magnanimity  swam  in  his  guest's  expressive  orbs. 

"Don't  speak  of  it,  Rumley !  Let's  forget  it.  I  admire 
you  for  coming  to  me  like  a  man.  And  we're  all  of  us  at 
fever  heat  to-night.  It  was  a  feast  of  reason  in  quart  bot 
tles  at  Vermicellio's  and  we're  saying  a  number  of  things 
we'll  forget  in  the  morning." 

"You're — you're  very  kind,"  faltered  the  embarrassed 
host  of  the  evening. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  And  perhaps,  Rumley,  you'll  be  inter 
ested  in  what  I  was  telling  Mrs.  Rumley  at  the  time  our 
duet  became  a — trio?" 

"Maybe  I  might."  Robert  was  at  once  in  a  listening 
mood. 

"I  have  been  interested — purely  as  an  artist — in  the  pos 
sibilities  of  Adelia's  career.  She  has  talent,  Rumley — per 
sonality,  dramatic  power,  charm.  No  great  voice  perhaps; 


174  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

but  then "  Blaize  shrugged  a  critic's  shrug.  "What 

shall  we  say  of  Farrar,  Garden,  Cavalieri  ?" 

"Give  it  up,"  confessed  Rumley  with  the  promptitude* 
of  happy  ignorance. 

"I  am  related,  on  my  mother's  side,  with  a  certain  power 
ful  financial  influence  behind  the  Metropolitan.  I  don't 
care  a  snap  of  my  finger  for  these  money-getters,  you  un 
derstand,  but  then "  The  Blaize  shrug  was  repeated. 

"Que  voulez-vous?  As  dramatic  critic  on  the  Limelight  I 
am  thrown  in  contact — my  opinions  carry  weight  in  certain 
quarters " 

"Sure,"  said  Rumley,  although  he  was  not  in  the  least 
sure. 

"And  I  think — I  am  not  certain,  mind — but  I  think  I  can 
get  Adelia — Mrs.  Rumley,  that  is — a  hearing  before  well- 
known  authorities,  with  a  view  to  an  engagement  in  grand 
opera." 

"You  don't  mean  it !"  The  promise  had  come  like  a 
blinding  surge  of  elf-light  to  that  soul  so  long  nurtured 
upon  poor  hopes. 

Dizzy  with  contemplation  Rumley  glanced  over  to  the 
rented  piano  at  which  his  queen  sat  again  enthroned.  He 
caught  her  eye,  and  there  was  condemnation  in  the  look 
she  shot  him. 

"Blaize,"  said  Rumley  thickly,  again  grasping  the  poet 
by  the  hand,  "I  didn't  know — I've  spilled  the  beans  some 
thing  awful." 

"S-s-sh !  Your  wife  is  going  to  sing,"  Ambrose  informed 
him,  generously  permitting  the  handshake. 

The  babel  of  artistic  jargons  had  died  at  some  one's  signal 
to  a  whisper  throughout  the  room.  Adelia  sat  perfectly 
still  for  a  moment,  the  angelic  contour  of  her  face  turned 
to  the  lyre-shaped  music  stand  above  the  keyboard.  Proud, 
crushed,  happy,  heartbroken,  Rumley  caught  the  first  surg 
ing  chords  of  the  song  he  worshipped  on  her  lips.  Swelling, 
swelling  came  the  harmonious  idyl  of  unfathomed  tides; 
then 


THE  GOAT  175 


Bang !    Clatter-tatter  !     Clash  ! 

The  radiator  had  been  lurking  in  its  corner,  awaiting  the 
fatal  opportunity. 

"Darn  it,"  whispered  Rumley,  "I've  left  the  silencer  in 
the  shop!" 

Handy  minuteman  that  he  was,  he  rushed  headlong 
toward  his  laboratory. 

Clang !    Clang !    Br-r-r-r  ! 

"In  a  minute,  dearie !"  Adelia's  husband,  gallant  as  any 
helmeted  fireman,  rushed  back,  his  marvel-working  silencer 
gleaming  between  thumb  and  forefinger.  In  a  moment  he 
was  squatting  beside  the  maddened  radiator.  In  another 
he  had  screwed  upon  the  hissing  valve  the  small,  ugly,  mi 
raculous  device  that  never  failed  to  strangle  those  apocalyp 
tic  bellowings. 

"Funny  little  man,"  smiled  Hildreth  Sunder,  rodent  teeth 
showing  in  the  midst  of  her  sallow,  concave  face  beneath 
its  Kafir  palm  thatch. 

in 

Robert  W.  Rumley,  on  the  drizzly  morning  after  Ver- 
micellio's  feast,  had  gone  forth  to  pay  his  ninth  visit  to  the 
offices  of  the  International  Metal  Contiivance  Company. 
Adelia  had  been  headachy  and  morose  that  morning,  and 
the  cup  of  special  percolator  coffee  which  he  had  so  indus 
triously  prepared  and  carried  to  her  bedside  had  done  little 
to  revive  her  from  her  indifference  and  exhaustion. 

"I  don't  believe  the  life's  agreeing  with  us,  honey,"  he 
had  sagely  begun,  but  she  had  deigned  no  comment  on  his 
homily.  Neither  had  said  a  word  on  the  subject  of  Am 
brose  Blaize,  but  the  spectre  stood  between  them  as  Rob 
ert  W.  Rumley,  his  hard  hat  crammed  tightly  over  his  bullet 
head,  the  silencer  bulging  a  side  pocket  of  his  dull  coat,  had 
gone  his  way  and  permitted  the  ghost  to  walk  the  Rumley 
apartment. 

At  the  International  Metal  Contrivance  Company's  of- 


176  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

fices  he  was  told  the  old,  old  story  by  the  brisk  lady  who 
sat  at  the  desk  outside  a  door  marked  "Chief  Engineer." 

Mr.  McCall  would  not  be  back  until  three  o'clock,  she 
informed  him.  No,  he  had  returned  from  New  Rochelle, 
but  he  was  usually  late  on  Thursday.  Would  Mr.  Rumley 
leave  his  card  and  state  his  business?  Mr.  Rumley  sur 
rendered  card  and  statement,  according  to  request.  After 
which  he  surrendered  hope  and  went  forth  to  take  the  air. 
Yet  he  was  in  no  mood  to  return  home  until  he  had  made 
another  pitiful  try  at  the  mythical  engineer.  It  wore  on 
past  noon,  and  Rumley  walked  over  to  Fourth  Avenue, 
where  he  joined  the  tribe  who  eat  standing,  a  glass  of  beer 
in  one  hand,  a  plate  of  Frankfurters  in  the  other. 

At  three  o'clock  he  returned  to  interview  the  brisk  lady 
outside  the  engineer's  office.  Again  apologetic,  she  ex 
plained  that  Mr.  McCall  had  just  telephoned.  He  was  de 
layed  again.  Would  Mr.  Rumley  take  a  seat  in  the  waiting 
room?  Life's  scene  was  all  one  waiting  room  to  Rumley, 
who  tilted  a  philosophical  hour  in  the  company's  hospitable 
chair,  seeking  to  strain  new  humour  from  the  comic  section 
of  an  evening  newspaper.  At  half  past  four  the  brisk  lady 
smiled  again.  Mr.  McCall  had  decided  upon  to-morrow 
as  a  more  convenient  date  for  a  visit  to  his  office. 

Twilight  thickened  in  the  room  as  Robert  entered  the 
flat,  brain- fagged  and  foot- weary. 

"Are  you  there,  Rummie,  my  boy?" 

Rumley  turned  to  the  cheerful  source  of  sound  and  ob 
served  that  blessed  rake,  Freddie  Poole. 

"Hello,  Freddie !"  Rumley's  feet  were  tired,  so  he  threw 
himself  into  a  handy  chair  and  started  taking  off  his  shoes. 
Finally  he  inquired :  "Where's  Delia  ?" 

"She  lunches,"  quoth  the  cheerful  alcoholic.  "The  great 
hearted  poet — he  pays  for  food  at  times,  you  understand?" 

"Blaize?" 

"Right-o !"  Freddie  dropped  a  cigarette  stub  into  his 
empty  glass  and  fixed  upon  his  friend  a  wild  and  whimsical 
stare.  "I  say,  old  Rummie,  between  you  and  me  and  the 


THE  GOAT  177 


bottomless  pit,  wouldn't  you  call  this  atmosphere" — in  pan 
tomime  he  snuffed  exotic  scents — "Florida  water,  ha'penny 
a  bottle — eh,  what?  No  air  for  woodland  violets,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"I  get  you,"  replied  Rumley  very  earnestly. 

"I'm  glad  you  do,  faithful  Rummie !  I  was  taking  a  bit 
of  an  eyeful  of  the  whole  mess  last  night,  and,  by  George,  it 
flashed  across  me  like  a  touch  of  sun.  With  the  exception 
of  Mrs.  Rumley,  of  course,  you  and  I  are  the  only  genuine 
animals  in  the  menagerie !  We  ain'.t  any  birds  of  paradise, 
Rummie;  but  we're  just  what  we  pretend  to  be." 

"And  what's  that  ?"  the  weary  seeker  questioned. 

"I'm  a  grafter,  Rummie — no  two  ways  about  it.  And 
you're  a  splendid,  well-developed  specimen  of  the  domes 
ticated  Capricorn  species.  You  understand — what  you 
Americans  call  a  Goat." 

"Now,  why  in  thunder,  Freddie —  Robert  was 

pursuing^  his  zoological  investigation,  when  the  Englishman 
turned  startled  eyes  toward  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Rumley,"  he  said  in  a  dramatic  whisper,  viewing 
that  lady's  distant  entrance  at  the  twilit  door.  "Well,  I'll 
be  heeling  it !" 

He  paused  for  a  brief  gallantry  as  Adelia  came  forward, 
cool  from  outdoor  winds.  Then  with  a  sketchy  "  'Bye !  I'm 
off !"  he  banged  the  front  door  behind  the  figure  which  some 
how  always  managed  to  remain  undisreputable. 

"Tired,  honey?"  asked  Rumley,  lighting  a  gas  jet  by  the 
mantel  and  observing  her  as  she  stood  removing  her  little 
blue  hat  before  the  ugly  mirror. 

"No.  Why  should  I  be?"  The  face  he  saw  distinctly  in 
the  glass  expressed  a  curious  neutral  emotion  he  had  never 
before  beheld  there.  There  had  been  cocktails  for  lunch, 
that  he  knew  by  the  heightened  colour  of  her  cheeks.  But 
it  wasn't  that  so  much. 

The  simple  Rumley  continued  to  eye  her  in  puzzlement. 
A  curious  inward  look  was  in  those  topaz  eyes;  in  some 
manner  she  had  grown  older,  more  experienced — she  knew 


178  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^^^^^^^"•"^••^^^^•^^"^^"^•^^^•••••'•^^^•^""^^"••^•'•^^^^^™™"™^^™ 

an  added  something.  There  was  a  repressed  excitement 
in  the  movement  of  her  pliant  fingers  among  the  wisps  that 
strayed  across  her  temples. 

"Do  you  know,  Rob,"  she  said,  facing  him  and  speak 
ing  brightly,  "I've  got  a  piece  of  splendid  news — some 
thing  is  going  to  happen  to  us  at  last!" 

"Dearie !"  he  cried,  keening  to  the  announcement.  But 
he  did  not  rise  to  embrace  her  as  he  might  have  done  yes 
terday. 

"That  big  man  behind  the  Metropolitan — Ambrose  told 
you  about  him,  didn't  he  ?" 

"He  didn't  mention  any  name." 

"H.  Stanchlow  Sommerfield." 

"He's  perfectly  gigantic !"  Robert  informed  her. 

"That's  the  man.  Well,  Ambrose  has  seen  him  and  he's 
coming  here  to-night  with  Dr.  Paul  Slagow,  the  celebrated 
producer,  to  try  out  my  voice." 

"Here?"  Rumley  sprawled  perfectly  helpless,  his  white- 
socked  toes  wagging  toward  the  ceiling. 

"To  this  very  flat." 

"You  don't  mean  it !" 

"Absolutely." 

"Whoops !"  Rumley  bounded  wildly  to  the  support  of  his 
snowy  hosiery.  Half  round  the  room  he  executed  an  un 
couth  war  dance,  then  halted  abruptly  in  the  midst  of  an 
antic  figure. 

"Where  the  deuce  did  Blaize  get  his  drag?" 

"I  told  you  he  could  be  of  use  to  us,"  she  answered  rather 
defiantly,  fixing  him  with  that  new  look  of  hers. 

"H.  Stanchlow  Sommerfield — right  here  in  our  flat.  By 
ginger,  I  knew  they'd  be  coming  to  you  pretty  soon !" 

Under  the  stress  of  a  sudden,  startled  reminder  he  stood 
looking  round  the  room,  which  in  the  dingy  gaslight  still 
showed  untidy  traces  of  last  night's  revel. 

"Got  to  hustle  and  red  up  the  place!  Feller  like  Som- 
merfield's  got  to  find  things  shipshape." 


THE  GOAT  179 


Already  Rumley  had  collected  an  armful  of  stray  highball 
glasses. 

"By  Jupiter,  honey!"  he  puffed  joyously.  "We  got  to 
have  a  genu-wine  party  in  honour  of  this.  Yes,  siree !  I'll 
blow  the  whole  neighbourhood  to  the  wine !" 

Adelia  stood  dreamily  criticising  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
as  reflected  in  the  walnut  mirror. 

The  radiator  banged,  at  first  timidly,  then  in  a  series  of 
mighty  thumps.  The  air  was  horrid  with  the  din,  but  Rob 
ert,  executing  prodigies  of  cleanliness  with  a  soggy  grey 
dusting  rag,  had  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  still  its  tocsin 
note. 

IV 

As  the  first  faint  tunk  of  the  farmer's  feed  pan  brings 
from  unexpected  corners  of  the  chicken  yard  a  cackling  rush 
of  feathered  gluttons,  so,  in  that  humble  zone  of  Bohemia 
wherein  dwelt  the  Rumleys,  the  very  faintest  intimation  of 
a  party  brought  the  top-knotted  denizens  of  the  district 
a-running  to  be  included  in  the  festivities.  Robert  W. 
Rumley,  overcoated  and  setting  forth  for  a  corner  liquor 
store  where  the  kind-of-champagne-you-almost-can't-tell- 
from-the-genuine-article  could  be  purchased  on  limited 
credit,  confided  the  Sommerfield  bonanza  to  Miss  Hildreth 
Sunder,  whom  he  met  in  the  hallway,  returning  from  Miss 
Allardyce's  apartment  with  a  dish  of  borrowed  potatoes. 
Miss  Sunder,  true  to  type,  rode  like  Paulina  Revere,  spread 
ing  the  alarm  from  door  to  door,  it  appeared;  for  when 
the  faithful  Rumley  returned  from  his  interview  with  the 
purveyor  of  case  goods  he  found  Bohemia  assembled  in  the 
studio  room.  Hildreth  Sunder,  flapping  her  long  arms  like 
some  awkwardly  winging  bird  of  the  Congo,  caressed  the 
Turkish  rug  with  a  carpet  sweeper.  Bolingbroke  Squashe 
whittled  the  ends  of  paraffin  candles  and  stuck  them  into 
convenient  bric-a-brac  at  well-balanced  intervals  round  the 
room.  Hildreth's  friend  with  the  Mona  Lisa  bangs  was 


i8o  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

running  over  to  another  friend's  to  borrow  a  punch  bowl. 
Even  now,  up  the  dark  staircase  came  Ambrose  Blaize  and 
Freddie  Poole,  the  latter  convoying  young  ladies  who,  upon 
introduction,  bowed  to  names  which  sounded  vaguely  like 
Mary  and  Carrie. 

"You're  too  early,"  Robert  W.  Rumley  was  explain 
ing  from  the  top  of  his  stepladder,  where  he  laboured  with 
a  shred  of  Chinese  embroidery  borrowed  for  the  occasion 
from  Miss  Sunder. 

"Never  too  early  for  a  party,"  protested  Freddie,  shed 
ding  his  coat  and  plunging  into  the  kitchenette. 

Only  the  insurgent  sculptor,  Pedro  McKonkie,  held  aloof 
in  a  corner.  Puffing  dreamily  at  his  yellow-paper  cigarette, 
he  viewed  the  picture  from  eyes  that  flattened  mystically 
under  his  Egyptian  headdress.  Life  was  to  him  only  a 
background. 

"Adelia  told  me  the  news,"  whispered  Rumley,  leaning 
down  and  wringing  Blaize  by  the  hand. 

"It  doesn't  amount  to  anything,"  said  the  influential  one 
with  a  tired  smile.  Rumley,  while  admiring  his  modesty, 
wondered  just  why  he  said  it  that  way. 

Adelia  came  sweeping  in  from  the  secret  enchantment 
of  her  boudoir.  Of  necessity  she  wore  the  same  cerise 
gown,  but  a  new  importance  had  clothed  her  in  a  garment 
of  charm. 

"Hurrah !"  shouted  Bohemia  as  the  vision  floated  in. 

"Where's  your  corkscrew?"  called  Freddie  from  the 
kitchenette. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  asking  all  the  world,"  was 
Blaize's  comment  to  Adelia,  which  floated  upward  to  Rob 
ert  on  his  perch. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  he  heard  her  de 
mand. 

From  his  ladder  Rumley  looked  down,  holding  a  corner 
of  the  Chinese  embroidery  limply  between  thumb  and  fore 
finger,  for  his  eyes  were  at  that  instant  upon  the  faces  of 
his  wife  and  her  admirer. 


THE  GOAT  181 


"It's  a  quarter  of  nine,"  said  that  watchful  Egyptian, 
Pedro  McKonkie. 

The  naturally  inhospitable  barn  of  a  room,  now  draped, 
garnished,  swept,  wore  an  air  of  merry  carnival.  On  a  bat 
tered  Chippendale  relic  in  the  corner  a  blue  jardiniere 
tinkled  with  ice.  Near  by  was  American  champagne — a  row 
of  bottles  standing  attention,  like  long-necked  soldiers  with 
tinfoil  helmets,  waiting  to  pour  forth  their  bubbling  hearts. 
Bohemia  was  talking  self-consciously,  one  eye  cocked 
toward  the  door. 

Rumley  was  the  first  to  spring  for  the  knob,  responsive 
to  the  trilling  of  the  bell ;  but  Blaize  was  at  his  elbow,  keen 
to  his  social  obligation.  The  evening-clad  gentlemen  who 
stepped  in  from  the  dingy  hallway  were  both  men  in  their 
early  sixties;  and  as  they  stood  blinking  into  the  glamour 
of  this  unexpected  fete  it  was  easy  to  see  that  neither  rel 
ished  the  surprise.  H.  Stanchlow  Sommerfield,  his  with 
ered  head  somewhat  vulturelike,  humorous  Yankee  eyes 
under  a  blue-veined  forehead,  was  the  first  to  recover  him 
self  as  he  smiled  upon  the  roomful. 

"In  our  honour?  Well!"  He  puckered  grey  eyes  at 
Rumley's  halting  explanation.  The  dumpy,  beetle-browed 
Polish  maestro  who  stood  beside  him  was  inspired  by  no 
such  lenient  philosophy. 

"Ve  can't  haf  dis !"  growled  Dr.  Paul  Slagow.  He  was 
a  fierce  old  man,  broadfaced,  square-toothed,  tyrannical. 
And  yet  when  he  spoke  he  waved  delicate  little  hands,  as 
though  conducting  the  most  airy  of  fluted  tremolos. 

"So  this  is  our  Prodigy !"  smiled  the  patron  of  art,  alive 
to  the  beauty  of  the  picture  as  Adelia  welcomed  him. 

"Oh,  no — no,  Mr.  Sommerfield.  I'm  sure  I'm  not."  Her 
white  skin  pinked  with  embarrassment.  "It  was  awfully 
good  of  you  to  come  and  I  hope  you'll  find — find  some 
thing " 

"I'm  sure,  I'm  sure!"  he  grunted.  Doctor  Slagow  re 
vealed  no  such  chivalrous  frame  of  mind  as  he  stood  glar 
ing  his  malevolence. 


i8i  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Only  half  an  hour,"  he  reminded  his  employer,  clicking 
his  watch  case  angrily. 

There  were  no  further  introductions.  The  audience  had 
fallen  to  an  expectant  hush.  The  group  of  principals  were 
advancing  on  the  rented  piano.  Rumley,  trailing  in  the 
rear,  was  making  Spartan  effort  to  control  his  craven  knees. 

"Unter  whom  do  you  study?"  asked  the  dyspeptic  mu 
sician,  looking  up  from  the  piano  stool. 

"Madame  Lunetti."  Adelia's  voice,  to  her  hovering 
spouse,  sounded  pathetically  thin  and  indistinct.  Robert 
balanced  nervously  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  fidgeting 
with  the  silencer,  which  he  had  forgotten  to  remove  from 
the  pocket  of  his  best  coat.  Somehow  the  contact  of  his 
fingers  with  the  hard  metal  gave  him  comfort,  like  the 
touching  of  a  talisman. 

"Lunetti.  Hum."  The  dragon  of  the  Metropolitan  thus 
dismissed  the  vocal  instructor. 

"Madame  Lunetti — she  tells  me  I'm  making  prog 
ress " 

"She  would  say  anytink,"  Slagow  assured  her,  darting  up 
a  savage  glance. 

Rumley  was  of  a  mind  to  interpose  with  the  explanation 
that  Madame  Lunetti  was  the  best  going,  that  she  had  been 
indorsed  by  no  less  an  authority  than  Mr.  Jones,  organist 
of  Bushelville's  First  Methodist  Church.  But  again  the 
musical  authority  took  up  his  inquisition. 

"Vat  vould  you  pree-far  to  sing?" 

"Let  me  see — I  have  several  pieces.  I  know  Bohm's  Still 
wie  die  Nacht.  I  might  sing  that." 

"You  might!"  was  Slagow's  helpful  comment. 

Already  the  hands  that  seemed  to  conjure  forth  sound 
without  movement  were  drawing  from  the  poor  instrument 
the  rippling  surge  of  Bohm's  prelude. 

"It  begins  here,"  he  suggested  with  an  acrid  smile. 

"Oh,  yes — I  have  to  get  used  to  you — would  you  muri 
starting  over  ?  I'm  so  stupid." 

Rumley,  helpless  spectator  of  the  pitiful  ordeal,  coulu 


THE  GOAT  183 


have  carried  her  bodily  away  from  this  horrifying  vision 
of  Success. 

Again  the  smoothly  running  fingers  of  the  musician 
passed  over  the  keys,  gliding  like  the  legs  of  some  marvel 
lously  rapid  spider.  The  tune  seemed  new  and  strange  to 
Rumley's  ears. 

"Now !"  hissed  the  irritable  accompanist.  Adelia's  voice, 
far  away  and  small  and  uncertain,  quavered  into  the  open 
ing  bars : 

"Still  wie  die  Nachjt, 
Tief  wie  das  Meer " 

Bang !    Clash !    Gr-r-r-r-rup ! 

"That  durned  radiator !"  Rumley's  mind  telephoned  hor- 
rifically  to  his  ready  hand,  which  went  plunging  against  the 
silencer  in  his  pocket. 

Gug— gug-g-g-g-g— ump !    Bang !    Clang ! 

The  uncertain  treble  of  Adelia's  voice  quavered  into  si 
lence,  the  pianoforte  accompaniment  terminated  with  an 
angry  crash  which,  during  its  brief  shock,  rivalled  the  battle 
music  of  the  steam  pipes. 

"I'll  fix  it,  dearie !"  Rumley  called  out  according  to  his 
formula  as  he  tiptoed  over  to  the  radiator ;  and,  crouching 
on  two  knees  and  one  hand,  he  concentrated  upon  his  task 
of  fitting  the  silencer  to  the  valve. 

Ar-r-r-r-r 

With  a  choking,  sneezing  growl  the  radiator  lost  its  me 
tallic  fury,  hiccuped  once,  then  settled  into  peace.  Rumley 
gave  his  invention  an  extra  twist  for  luck,  ere  he  raised  his 
empurpled  visage  to  the  room. 

Doctor  Slagow,  assuming  a  look  of  martyred  tenacity, 
was  again  tackling  the  prelude.  H.  Stanchlow  Sommerfield 
was  tiptoeing  across  the  room,  toward  where  Rumley  squat 
ted.  Amusedly  the  capitalist  stood  regarding  the  busy  me 
chanic,  who  had  again  engaged  himself  in  the  problem  of 
the  valve. 

"Still  wie  die  Nacht!"     Clearer  and  more  certain  this 


184  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

time,  Adelia  greeted  the  midnight's  noiseless  deep.  Rumley 
heard  her  song  arise  sweet  and  pure,  and,  on  his  knees  be 
side  the  radiator,  held  his  breath  and  prayed  that  his  bit  of 
metal  would  hold  against  all  the  steam  pressure  exerted  by 
their  malevolent  janitor.  Upward,  upward  floated  the  mel 
ody,  poised,  for  the  husband  who  knelt  in  worship,  serenely 
as  a  soaring  bird,  settled  smoothly  down  and  came  to  an 
end  at  last,  bell-like  and  sustained.  Every  hand  in  Bo 
hemia  claqued  noisily. 

"Well?"  asked  Rumley,  arising  and  casting  a  beseeching 
glance  up  to  the  awful  judge  who  stood  beside  him.  Som- 
merfield,  still  smiling,  continued  to  look  down  at  the  radiator 
valve. 

"By  George,  Rumley,"  he  said  at  last ;  "it's  wonderful !" 

"Isn't  it?"  cried  the  little  man,  all  out  of  breath.  "She 
can  sing,  can't  she?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  replied  the  magnate,  his  grin  broadening. 
"But — er — I  was  referring  to  that  thing  you  put  on  the 
radiator.  How  in  the  world  do  you  do  it?" 

Bohemia  had  carried  its  self-conscious  burden  to  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  punch  bowl,  the  bearish  gentleman  at 
the  piano  was  gesturing  under  Adelia's  nose,  as  Robert 
W.  Rumley,  the  move  having  been  suggested  to  him,  led 
the  patron  of  arts  and  letters  to  the  little  room  he  called 
his  workshop. 


The  candles  in  the  studio  were  mostly  out,  the  rest  dimly 
flickering.  Rumley  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  gloomy,  de 
serted  vault  as,  his  stubby  hands  knuckled  against  his  nubby 
chin,  he  leaned  against  his  work-bench  and  wondered  how 
to  take  it  all. 

Adelia  came  in  at  last  and  seated  herself  wearily  beside 
him  on  an  overturned  crate. 

"Dearie,  you  were  wonderful !"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
gently  in  her  lap.  The  coil  of  her  splendid  hair  was  falling 


THE  GOAT  185 


loose  and  the  lines  of  a  young  middle  age  were  showing  at 
the  corners  of  her  eyes. 

"No,  Rob,  say  the  truth.     I  was  abominable." 

"Oh,  dearie !" 

His  hand  lay  still  neglected  in  the  pillow  of  cerise  silk 
as  she  looked  sorrowfully  into  the  green-shaded  lamp. 

"Doctor  Slagow  told  me  about  myself."  She  uttered  the 
words  faintly. 

"You  need  some  more  lessons  and " 

"Lessons  can't  make  a  voice  when  it  isn't  there,"  she 
said.  "He  wasn't  very  polite  to  me ' 

"I'll  punch  that  mean  little  guinea!" 

"That  wouldn't  help  any.  And  why  should  you?  He's 
probably  the  best  friend  I've  got — we've  got.  He  showed 
me  how  useless  it  was.  I've  studied  enough  to  know.  He's 
perfectly  right." 

"But,  dearie !  I've  got  a  plan.  I  can  fix  it  so  that  you'll 
have  a  better  teacher,  a  lot  more  lessons 

"There  won't  be  any  more  lessons  for  me,"  she  replied 
with  a  sort  of  hopeless  decisiveness.  "Rob,  dear." 

"Yes,  honey." 

"Let's  go  back  to  Bushelville." 

"What !  And  leave  your  career,  all  this  art  crowd  we've 
been  working  up?" 

"They've  been  working  us  up,  I  think,  Rob.  We've  sold 
out  everything  we  had  to  pay  for  the  party.  They're  will 
ing  to  praise  and  flatter  and  encourage,  so  long  as  we  keep 
a  bottle  on  ice.  The  bottle's  empty  now  and  we  can  afford 
tickets  home  maybe." 

"But  there's  Blaize."  It  cost  Robert  a  struggle  to 
yield  this  justice.  "He  really  did  a  nice,  friendly  thing  in 
getting  you  a  chance." 

"Blaize!"  Then  she  turned  slowly  to  her  husband  and 
asked : 

"Do  you  know  what  Blaize  suggested  yesterday  at  lunch  ? 
Don't  be  angry,  Rob.  It  was  my  fault  as  much  as  his.  I've 
been  crazy,  I  think,  with  an  ambition  to  be  something  I 


186  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

wasn't.  Hildreth  Sunder,  too,  had  been  telling  me  a  lot  of 
emancipated  stuff.  She  warned  me  time  and  again  that  an 
artist  could  never  succeed  until  the  false  values  of  the  con 
ventional  world  had  been  cast  away.  I  didn't  know  exactly 
what  she  meant  then.  But  when  Blaize  offered  me  Som- 
merfield  as  a  sort  of  bribe  I  was  fool  enough  to  let  him  talk 
without — without  killing  him  on  the  spot.  It's  queer  what 
this  poison  does  to  people." 

"I  could  have  told  you  that,  dearie,"  he  said  gently. 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"I  knew  it  sort  of  made  you  nervous  to  have  me  butting 
in.  There's  a  limit,  even  for  a  Goat,  honey." 

"Oh,  Rob !" 

There  was  a  long  pause,  but  she  never  moved. 

"I  sent  him  away  to-night,"  she  said  finally. 

"Delia,  could  you  be  satisfied  with  Bushelville  and  the 
choir — after  this  ?  It's  a  jay,  one-street  burg  and  the  people 
don't  know  they're  alive.  It's  awful  small." 

"I'm  awful  small  too,"  she  sighed.  "It  would  be  heaven 
to  me  after  this.  I'm  tired  to  the  heart  of  the  whole  mess." 

"We'll  start  packing  to-morrow !" 

"How  can  we?  We're  broke.  I  know,  Rob,  how  deep 
you've  gone  into  this  thing  for  me.  There  isn't  a  cent  in 
prospect.  You've  sold  out  your  business,  the  house  we  first 
lived  in  is  mortgaged.  We  just  couldn't  live." 

"Oho !    If  that's  all  you're  worrying  about !" 

"Have  you — have  you  anything  in  view?" 

"Just  a  little  thing."  Robert  W.  Rumley  could  not  find 
heart  to  rebuke  the  elation  that  rose  shining  to  his  brow. 
"Sommerfield  saw  me  work  the  silencer  while  you  were 
singing.  Right  after  that  he  locked  me  in  here  and  talked 
like  a  business  man — he's  president  of  the  International 
Metal  Contrivance  Company,  you  know.  He  won't  buy  my 
patent  yet,  he  says,  because  it's  crude  and  requires  a  lot  of 
tinkering." 

"Oh!" 


THE  GOAT  187 


"But  he's  offered  me  ten  thousand  dollars  advance  for 
the  year,  just  to  work  it  out." 

Ambition's  emancipated  slave  looked  away  to  hide  the 
tears  which  would  not  be  denied. 

"Rob,  you're  the  only  real  thing  in  the  world,"  she  whis 
pered. 

"There's  Freddie  Poole,"  suggested  her  husband  loyally. 

Her  slender  fingers  doubled  over  a  chunky,  capable  hand 
reddened  by  continual  contact  with  kitchen  soap  and  labora 
tory  metal  filings. 


WHEN  Admah  Hoag,  quite  without  announcing  his 
intention,  emerged  out  of  obscurity  and  into  fame 
as  America's  ablest  mural  painter,  it  became  the 
duty  of  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Corlear  van  Zoon,  to  civilise  him. 
She  started  early,  for  she  had  a  great  task  on  her  hands; 
and  this  is  how  she  succeeded. 

But  a  few  months  after  "The  Elektra,"  his  remarkable 
fresco,  had  been  unveiled  in  the  new  Pan-Hellenic  Build 
ing,  and  newspaper  men  were  still  scrambling  for  interviews 
with  this  elusive  young  genius,  who  had  hidden  away  as 
though  his  achievement  had  been  a  shameful  crime,  she 
went  over  the  bridge  to  Brooklyn  with  the  definite  object 
of  making  something  out  of  the  sorry  material  which  her 
nephew  offered.  A  smartly  clad,  handsome  woman,  her 
hair  pleasantly  pepper-and-salted,  she  threaded  her  way 
gingerly  down  the  narrow,  sloping  street  under  the  bridge 
and  entered  a  barn  of  a  place  so  near  the  river  that  you 
could  have  popped  a  snowball  into  the  water.  The  second 
floor,  at  whose  battered  door  she  knocked  daintily,  had 
once  been  a  storage  loft.  Even  in  his  unrewarded  youth 
Mrs.  van  Zoon  had  resented  this  structure,  and  to-day  as 
she  brought  a  white  knuckle  against  the  drab  panel  she 
reflected  that  it  was  silly,  unsanitary  and  not  at  all  in  keep 
ing  with  her  Admah's  rising  fortunes. 

Her  knocks  awoke  nothing  but  echoes.  She  tried  the 
knob  and  her  sense  of  secure  property  value  was  outraged 
to  find  that  the  door  was  unlocked,  the  studio  apparently 

1 88 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  189 

deserted.  The  great,  gaunt,  dingy  room,  mysterious  in  the 
November  twilight,  looked  lonesome;  a  vast  cartoon  of  the 
Elektra  figure  covered  a  far  wall  and  seemed  about  to  spring 
forth  in  that  menacing,  terrible  strength  with  which  the 
brush  of  the  young  giant  was  able  to  endow  his  creations. 

Somewhere  up  aloft  a  nasal  tenor  was  droning  and  dron 
ing  a  sort  of  weird  incantation.  It  was  something  about 
a  little  dog.  .  .  .  "The  little  dawg  was  run-ning.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  Ad !    Admah,  dear !" 

In  spite  of  herself  her  voice  quavered  into  the  cry  of  a 
frightened  child. 

"Yip !" 

"Where  in  the  world  are  you?" 

"Come  up !"  The  strident  summons  floated  down  to  her. 
Suddenly  a  square  of  light  appeared  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
ceiling  and,  operated  by  unseen  hands,  an  electric  bulb  on 
the  end  of  a  cord  came  down  and  illuminated  a  rickety 
stairway. 

The  caller  picked  her  way  through  the  clutter  of  the  big 
untidy  space.  Even  as  her  small,  light-topped  shoes  began 
taking  the  steps  upward  the  drawling  chant  resumed  its 
drone : 

"The  little  dawg  was  run-ning  round  the  engine, 
The  engine  it  was  run-ning  through  the  fawg. 
There  came  an  awful  yelp 
Which  the  engine  couldn't  help; 
For  the  engine  couldn't  run  a-round  the  dawg." 

Then,  as  she  achieved  the  top  step,  the  threnody  sobbed 
to  its  inevitable  conclusion : 

"The  little  dawg  was  run-ning  round  the  en-gine ; 
But  the  en-gine  couldn't  run  a-round  the  dawg." 

In  a  cheap  and  awful  little  room,  a  cell  of  a  place,  papered 
with  purple  roses,  heated  by  a  base  burner  stove,  adorned 
with  Civil  War  lithographs  of  lowly  origin,  furnished  with 
a  yellow  roll-top  desk  and  a  Morris  chair  of  super-mid- 
Victorian  design,  stood  the  newly  acknowledged  prince  of 


190  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^^^^^^^^^  ^^^vr^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^T^™1'"" 

American  painters  under  a  blaze  of  electric  lights.  His 
big-muscled  arms  protruded  from  an  athletic  undershirt, 
the  revst  of  him  was  encased  in  a  comprehensive  pair  of 
blue  overalls.  His  blond  hair  closely  cropped,  his  eyes  keen 
as  a  sharpshooter's,  his  features  heavy  but  curiously  shy, 
Admah  Hoag  looked  exactly  what  he  was — the  best  born 
grandson  of  an  able  mechanic. 

It  was  quite  a  minute  before  he  looked  up,  for  he  was 
absorbed  in  manipulating  a  mass  of  clay  on  the  top  of  his 
desk,  shaping  it  dexterously  by  the  aid  of  a  match  and  a 
palette  knife. 

"Aunt  Pinny!  Excuse  me!"  He  dropped  his  knife  with 
a  clatter  and,  bounding  over,  planted  a  dutiful  kiss  upon 
her  spotted  veil.  "I  thought  it  was  the  girl  from  Louey's 
with  the  goulash." 

"Why  in  the  world  don't  you  turn  out  some  of  these 
awful  lights?" 

"I  love  'em,"  seemed  sufficient  explanation  for  him. 

"What  a  way  to  live!"  moaned  his  good  aunt,  who  had 
said  it  in  his  presence  a  thousand  times. 

"I  was  going  to  dress  and  come  over  to  the  Island  for 
dinner.  But  I  got  to  fussing  with  this ' 

Upon  closer  inspection  she  saw  what  he  had  been  doing 
with  the  clay.  He  had  moulded  it  into  a  miniature  land 
scape;  a  very  crooked  shanty  with  a  very  crooked  stove 
pipe  and,  to  the  rear  on  the  summit  of  a  high  crag,  a 
haughty  little  goat.  It  was  done  with  the  delicate  intri 
cacy  of  a  Chinese  ornament  in  malachite,  and  it  was  ex 
pressive  of  that  character  which  Admah  Hoag  put  into  his 
'slightest  work. 

"What  a  silly  little  gob !"  exclaimed  his  censorious  rela 
tive. 

"It's  a  design  for  a  country  house,"  he  told  her  cheer 
fully,  puffing  away  at  a  very  black  Porto  Rican  cigar.  "I 
once  saw  such  a  shanty  on  a  bluff  near  Pittsburg.  It  was 
inhabited  by  an  Irish  lady  who  was  a  witch  and  kept  an 
enchanted  princess  rushing  the  growler  for  her  all  day  long. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  191 

I  tried  to  hire  the  princess  as  a  model,  but  when  the  witch 
heard  of  it  she  told  her  brother-in-law,  who  was  a  team 
ster  and " 

"What  a  vile  room !"  cut  in  Mrs.  van  Zoon,  paying  not 
the  slightest  heed  to  the  unfolding  romance.  "Where  in 
the  world  did  you  get  together  such  a  collection  of  atroci 
ties  ?" 

"It  is  pretty  bad,  isn't  it?"  he  acknowledged  in  a  voice 
which  revealed  much  pride.  "This  little  old  room  has  been 
sealed  up  ever  since  I  took  the  loft.  I've  always  pined  for 
a  natural  abiding  place,  all  my  own.  So%last  week  I  man 
aged  to  jimmy  the  lock.  This  is  just  as  I  found  it.  It  used 
to  belong  to  a  tug-boat  captain  who  left  everything  ship 
shape  the  day  he  was  drowned." 

"Of  course  you'll  have  it  decorated." 

"Decorated !  If  an  interior  decorator  comes  within  a 
mile  of  this  spot — well,  I  guess  you  know  what  I  think 
about  interior  decorators."  He  settled  himself  on  a  box 
and  glared  moodily.  "No,  sir!  This  is  a  he-room.  It's  a 
place  where  a  man  can  come  to  think  and  smoke  tobacco." 

"Where's  your  aesthetic  sense?" 

"I  check  it  outside  when  I  come  in  here.  This  is  the  best 
place  I  know  of  to  forget  that  I'm  an  artist.  By  Jove, 
Aunt  Pinny,  this  whole  artistic  game  makes  me  sick !" 

"Admah!" 

"Why  can't  people  leave  me  be  to  lead  the  life  I'm  used 
to?" 

"You  oughtn't  to  get  used  to  this  sort  of  thing,"  chided 
his  aunt  very  gently.  "You've  got  to  remember  that  the 
instant  you  were  recognised — in  the  big  way  you've  been — 
you  stepped  into  a  new  plane.  You  don't  belong  to  your 
self  any  more.  You  belong  to  the  public  who  have  ac 
knowledged  you." 

"Good  Lord!  Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  he  groaned,  and 
scraped  his  capable  5ngers  through  his  short  hair. 

"You've  got  to  cultivate  a  sense  of  your  obligation.  I 
hate  to  scold  you,  my  dear;  but  it  did  seem  a  shame,  the 


192  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^~^~m~^~™'^^^m*mmmmm^m*m*~m~^~^~m**~i^^mm'^^^^^^~mmiim**^^*mi~m^~^m*mi^~^^y 

night  your  fresco  was  unveiled — everybody  who  was  any 
body  surrounding  you  and  doing  you  honour — that  you 
didn't  have  anything  better  to  say  than  that  you  had  a  cold 
and  wanted  to  go  home " 

"Why  in  the  world  do  people  lose  all  their  brains  when 
they  travel  in  crowds?"  he  protested.  "Because  I  did  my 
job  and  they  liked  it  and  I  got  paid  for  it,  why  did  they 
have  to  hold  me  there  to  hear  them  lecture  at  me  and  sing 
at  me " 

"Few  people  can  have  Caruso  to  sing  at  them,  as  you  call 
it." 

"And  then  an  actor  had  to  get  up  and  recite  Gungha  Dhin. 
Years  ago  I  swore  that  I'd  never  again  listen  to  a  recita 
tion  of  Gungha  Dhin." 

"There's  no  living  actor  who  does  it  better." 

"I  tell  you,  Aunt  Pinny,  the  New  York  idea  of  art  is 
killing  me  by  inches.  This  blessed  town  can't  do  anything 
in  moderation."  He  was  now  storming  full  force  at  his 
favourite  abomination.  "They've  gone  mad  over  interior 
decorators — want  to  cover  all  the  fire  plugs  with  Japanese 
tea-paper.  I'd  like  to  go  somewhere  where  I  could  draw 
a  breath  of  fresh  air  and  meet  some  human  beings.  Look 
at  that  Mrs.  Ballymoore — sometimes  I  scream  out  in  the 
night,  thinking  that  woman's  coming  at  me  again  .  .  .  with 
her  three  dozen  millions  that  she  ought  to  be  spending  on 
dogs  and  horses  .  .  .  now  she's  getting  together  a  collec 
tion  of  artists.  And  that  awful  little  interior  decorator 
who's  been  turning  her  house  into  a  second-rate  mu 
seum " 

"You  mean  Carlo  Dulcimer  ?"  asked  the  lady  in  a  shocked 
tone. 

"I  suppose  that's  his  wormy  little  name.  I've  been 
dragged  once  too  often  into  Mrs.  Ballymoore's  mob  of  ge 
nius  and  been  bored  enough  by  that  interior  decorator " 

"Mr.  Dulcimer,"  supplied  his  aunt  with  the  patience  of 
an  ambassador. 

" — squirming  and  going  into  a  trance  over  a  yard  of  art 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  193 

. 

cretonne;  sticking  a  lot  of  fake  primitive  paintings  around 
walls  the  colour  of  spoiled  pistachio  nuts.  I  don't  like 
Dulcimer,  I  don't  like  Mrs.  Ballymoore,  I  don't  like  her 
crowd,  I  don't  like  her  house.  And  that's  why  I've  chosen 
this  room  to  live  in.  It's  a  protest." 

"It's  about  Mrs.  Ballymoore  that  I've  come  all  this  way," 
said  his  aunt,  folding  her  gloved  hands  and  looking  at  him 
quizzically. 

"Now,  Aunt  Pinny,  darling!     Don't  say " 

"Have  you  forgotten  she's  giving  you  a  reception  to-mor 
row  afternoon?" 

"Reception?  Say — now  that's  just  like  that  woman. 
She  asked  me  to  drop  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea " 

"Her  cards  are  out.  This  is  to  be  one  of  the  largest  re 
ceptions  of  the  season." 

"Now  look  here !"  The  man  in  overalls  arose  and  loomed 
over  the  neat  figure  of  the  only  member  of  the  Hoag  family 
that  had  ever  attained  the  Social  Register.  "She's  going 
a  little  too  far.  She  can't  get  me  under  false  pretences. 
I'll  not  go." 

"You  owe  it  to  yourself.     You  owe  it  to  your  reputation." 

"I  don't  owe  a  darned  thing  to  Mrs.  Ballymoore.  Aunt 
Pinny,  it's  impossible.  Besides,  I've  got  to  be  out  of  town 
— I'm  going  West." 

It  was  only  that  instant  that  he  knew  of  the  impending 
Westward  journey,  but  his  excuses  were  sufficient. 

"WThy  didn't  you  tell  me?  Why  did  you  allow  Mrs. 
Ballymoore  to  make  all  those  preparations?"  she  asked 
sharply. 

"Well,  I've  just  decided.  There's  a  town  out  West  where 
they've  been  begging  me  for  the  past  month  to  come  and 
look  over  an  Auditorium.  There  has  been  considerable 
correspondence.  I've  been  negotiating — I've — 

"Where  is  this  Auditorium  ?"  she  interrupted  suspiciously. 

Admah  hesitated.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  forgotten 
the  name  of  the  town,  but  what  he  said  was  literally  true. 

"Admah,  you  poor  daft  child!    Don't  you  know  you've 


194  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

got  more  work  right  here  in  New  York  than  you  can  pos 
sibly  do  in  a  lifetime  ?  Why  should  you  go  West  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you  why.  I  want  to  get  away  from  interior 
decorators  and  speechifying  and  receptions  and  all  this  New 
York  twaddle.  I  want  to  go  to  a  place  where  there's  more 
fresh  air  than  culture,  where  the  people  are  just  natural 
and  this  confounded  lion-chasing  hasn't  gotten  fashionable. 
That's  why  I  want  to  go." 

"You've  never  been  West  of  Pittsburg  in  your  life.  You 
don't  know  the  least  thing  about — anything.  Have  you 
positively  promised  to  go?" 

"Well,  no.     But  practically " 

"Then  you're  not  going  to  do  anything  insane.  You'll 
think  this  over  and  be  a  good  boy.  Won't  you,  Admah  ?" 

He  cast  an  affectionate  glance  at  the  relative,  whom  he 
had  always  adored  and  never  agreed  with. 

"You  know,  painting  with  me  is  a  business.  I  can't  be 
at  Mrs.  Ballymoore's  beck  and  call  when  really  serious 
things  are  at  stake." 

"I'll  call  you  up  in  the  morning,"  she  smiled  securely,  ris 
ing  and  picking  up  her  beaded  bag.  "I'll  engage  rooms  for 
you  at  the  Vanderbilt  and  have  your  afternoon  things  all 
laid  out  for  you.  Don't  worry  about  anything.  And  I'll 
stand  by  you  to  see  that  Mrs.  Ballymoore  doesn't  eat  you 
up." 

"And  that  decorator  chap  ?" 

"He  won't  bother  you.     He's  gone  away." 

Admah  Hoag,  ordinarily  a  wordless  individual,  stood  ir 
resolute,  striving  for  further  protests. 

"Good-bye,  dear.  No,  don't  go  out  with  me — you'll  catch 
cold.  My  car's  right  around  the  corner.  You'll  feel  more 
sensible  in  the  morning." 

She  was  gone  and  Admah  Hoag  settled  down  again  in  his 
hideous  Morris  chair.  The  thought  of  Mrs.  Ballymoore  and 
her  hated  family  smarted  like  a  burn.  The  fear  of  the 
crowd,  too,  had  been  a  disease  with  him  since  the  early  day 
when  a  zealot  of  a  schoolmistress  had  dragged  him  to  the 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  195 

rostrum  to  say  "Horatius  at  the  Bridge"  before  a  giggling 
roomful.  And  to  his  distorted  imagination  Mrs.  Bally- 
moore  stood  for  but  one  thing — the  public  appearance  which 
he  abhorred;  teas,  receptions,  inane  palaverings. 

He  had  not  spoken  vainly  when  he  threatened  to  go  West. 
A  booming  city.  .  .  .  Harnessville  he  now  remembered  it 
to  be  called  .  .  .  had  taken  an  inscrutable  interest  in  his 
work  ever  since  the  Pan-Hellenic  unveiling.  Innumerable 
letters  and  telegrams  signed  "A.  A.  Gallop,  Chairman  Art 
Committee,"  had  come  to  him,  each  more  coaxing  than  the 
last.  Harnessville  desired  to  be  beautified  and  it  would 
take  no  substitutes.  There  was  an  endowment  and  Admah 
Hoag  could  have  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  the  asking. 

Once  or  twice  he  had  been  on  the  verge  of  packing  for 
Harnessville.  It  would  be  a  refuge  from  such  tuft-hunters 
as  the  Ballymoore  tribe.  It  was  that  woman's  daughter, 
Vera,  who  had  been  a  particular  annoyance  to  him.  For  a 
week  or  so  he  had  been  inane  enough  to  imagine  himself  in 
love.  Their  meetings  had  been  aided  and  abetted  by  the 
ambitious  Mrs.  Ballymoore,  he  found  out  soon  enough.  She 
had  a  way  of  bringing  together  celebrities  as  one  collects 
porcelains,  as  a  piquante  social  attraction.  Then  along  had 
come  this  cooing,  plausible  interior  decorator,  Carlo  Dulci 
mer.  Vera  had  played  them  very  nicely  as  decoys  for  a 
large  foreign  title  which  she  was  then  stalking.  To  have 
been  thrown  with  Dulcimer,  every  hair  of  whose  head  he 
despised,  in  such  a  position  of  spurious  rivalry,  was  an 
unending  irritation  to  Hoag,  who  was  of  those  impulsive 
souls  who  fracture  their  skulls  in  attempting  to  smash  a 
mosquito. 

At  any  rate,  he  had  had  common  sense  enough  to  escape. 
And  now  Mrs.  Ballymoore  was  after  him  again! 

For  a  long,  long  time  Admah  Hoag  sat  under  his  favour 
ite  cluster  of  electric  lights  as  he  puffed  a  Porto  Rican  cigar 
and  reflected.  For  his  aunt's  sake  he  would  buck  up  and 
go  to  the  reception.  But  he  hated  all  receptions.  And  it 
was  like  Mrs.  Ballymoore's  detestable  trickery  to  wish  this 


196  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

one  on  him.  Sweat  gathered  on  his  brow  as  he  thought  of 
the  ordeal  to  which  family  affection  had  pledged  him.  He 
saw  himself  trussed  up  like  an  usher  wasting  away  at  centre 
stage  and  being  sung  at — perhaps  some  awful  actor  would 
recite  "Gungha  Dhin."  .  .  . 

Far  away  on  the  outside  studio  door  there  came  a  thun 
derous  rap-tap-tapping.  Admah  swore,  hitched  his  sus 
penders  over  his  athletic  undershirt  and  went  forth.  As  he 
opened  the  door  he  saw,  vaguely  silhouetted  in  the  hall 
lamp,  a  small  figure  in  a  visored  cap. 

"Mr.  Hog?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Telegram.     Sign  here." 

When  he  had  clicked  on  a  light  he  tore  open  the  yellow 
envelope  to  read: 

"Can  you  come  at  once  Harnessville  make  your  own  terms 
must  know  immediately  answer  paid. 

W.  A.  GALLOP, 
Chairman  Art  Committee." 

Admah  retained  the  boy  by  a  sleeve.  "Answer  paid." 
It  was  as  though  he  had  called  upon  his  Divinity  and  she 
had  responded  with  a  miracle.  W.  A.  Gallop — the  name 
had  a  blunt,  forthright  man-sound.  Obviously  he  owed 
nothing  to  Mrs.  Ballymoore.  The  West  was  calling — the 
great,  free,  natural  West,  unspoiled  by  the  empty  vanities 
which  had  made  the  East  unendurable  for  him ! 

"Four  words,"  responded  the  lad,  after  Admah  had 
scrawled  his  reply  on  a  scrap  of  card-board. 

Thus  Admah  Hoag  became  a  refugee  from  Fame. 


II 

Because  Trenton,  New  Jersey,  had  been  Out  West  to 
Admah  Hoag  before  his  latest  adventure,  let  me  pioneer  the 
way,  revealing  Harnessville  and  the  events  which  covered 
several  months  and  culminated  in  that  fourteen-word  tele- 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  197 

gram.  W.  A.  Gallop,  signer  of  the  message,  was  one  Wini 
fred  Alisia  Gallop,  known  as  "Skinny  Winny"  to  the 
younger  or  disrespectful  set  and  published  as  "Mrs.  Ameri- 
cus  Gallop"  in  the  society  column  of  the  Harnessville  Eagle. 
Mrs.  Gallop  was  a  lady  of  decisive  character,  as  illustrated 
by  the  set  of  her  jaw,  and  of  soaring  ideals,  as  indicated 
by  the  occasional  softening  of  her  fierce  blue  eyes.  Ameri- 
cus,  husband  and  provider  by  profession,  well  knew  that 
softening  of  the  iris  and  had  learned  to  dread  what  it  por 
tended;  anything  in  Harnessville  might  be  torn  up  or  torn 
down.  And  it  was  on  a  night  in  early  Spring,  just  as 
Americus  had  settled  down  in  his  favourite  Morris  chair 
and  under  the  uncompromising  brilliance  of  the  brass- 
stemmed,  green-globed  reading  lamp  he  so  dearly  loved,  that 
a  glance  over  the  sporting  edition  brought  to  him  disturb 
ingly  that  bodeful  look  in  his  lady's  eyes. 

"Carlo  Dulcimer  has  come  back.  He's  going  to  stay 
awhile  and  give  us  some  talks  about — beautifying.  He 
makes  our  life  out  here  seem  so  sordid." 

She  was  telling  this  to  her  eldest  daughter,  Amelia,  while 
their  youngest,  America,  sat  at  the  piano  banging  out  musi 
cal  comedy  with  all  her  raw-boned  strength. 

"I  saw  him  going  into  Palessy's  Drug  Store.  Isn't  he 
distinguished  looking !" 

Amelia  offered  this  contribution  and  Americus  Gallop, 
poring  over  baseball  futurities,  made  the  note  in  the  back  of 
his  head,  "Amelia  would  say  that."  He  was  one  of  your 
fathers  who  love  all  their  children  equally  well,  yet  there 
was  a  human  quality  in  his  affection  for  the  hobbledehoy 
America — Merry  as  he  familiarly  called  her — which  he 
could  not  extend  to  his  more  accomplished  and  better  be 
haved  daughter.  He  sat  there,  just  catching  such  shreds 
of  the  conversation  as  escaped  above  the  tune  which  the 
noisy  Merry  was  dinning  from  the  keys :  quite  unconscious 
of  the  fascinating  subject,  the  young  girl  stretched  her  long 
arms  across  the  keyboard,  shook  her  unruly  hank  of  red 
dish  hair  and  swung  into  the  rhythm  of  "Some  Little  Bug 


198  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^•"•^ —^^— mm~mm~—^—^—m— **—*—*  — — ~— i^— ~— •••••••y 

Will  Get  You  Some  Day,"  a  composition  then  becoming 
popular  in  Harnessville. 

Man,  they  say,  has  no  intuitions.  He  may  be  permitted, 
however,  to  have  a  hunch  now  and  then ;  and  that  evening 
Americus  Gallop,  as  he  glanced  awry  across  the  cosy,  ugly, 
mid- Victorian  comforts  of  his  living  room,  enjoyed  a  vision 
of  trouble  approaching  in  the  flesh  of  Mr.  Dulcimer.  He 
had  known  and  played  cards  with  Joe  Dulcimer,  Harness- 
ville's  leading  dry-goods  merchant,  for  the  better  part  of  a 
lifetime.  He  remembered  Joe  having  a  boy  called  Charlie, 
a  Fauntleroyish  thing  in  a  pleated  collar.  When  did  he  be 
come  Carlo  ?  What  was  the  meaning  of  this  insect  coming 
back  and  finding  Harnessville  sordid  ?  What  sort  of  strange 
germ  was  Winifred  going  to  absorb  now  into  her  sensitive 
pores?  It  was  bad  enough  the  way  Mrs.  Modderson  had 
got  hold  of  her  in  her  highbrowed  lectures  on  How  to 
Speak. 

Reflection  made  Americus  nervous,  so  he  clapped  on  his 
hat  and  rambled  over  to  the  Falstaff  club  for  a  game  of 
pitch  in  the  Amen  Corner. 

On  the  evening  of  the  morrow  he  had  forgotten  his  fears 
as  he  unlatched  the  front  door  and  whistled  "Rock  of  Ages" 
slightly  off  the  key.  Mr.  Gallop  was  a  short,  round-faced, 
round-bodied  man,  somewhat  suggestive  of  the  barrels 
which  had  prospered  him  greatly  in  the  flour  business.  And 
to-night  his  face  was  dreamy  with  anticipation ;  for  Ameri 
cus  Gallop,  never  an  imaginative  man,  loved  the  quiet  dusk 
when  he  could  sprawl  with  the  evening  papers  in  his  own 
Morris  chair,  under  his  own  green  light.  The  chair,  the 
light,  the  paper  and  Americus  Gallop  had  come  into  con 
junction  at  about  this  hour  for  a  length  of  days  beyond  com 
putation.  He  always  saved  the  papers  to  read  in  that  Mor 
ris  chair,  under  that  light.  And  to-night  was  no  exception, 
save  that  olive  branches  were,  perhaps,  a  trifle  more  promi 
nent  than  usual  in  the  mood  he  carried  home  with  him. 

But  as  he  swung  the  front  door  to  the  arc  of  observation 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  199 

Americus  became  aware  that  something  had  happened,  and 
that  something  affected  him  disagreeably.  He  skipped  a 
stanza  of  his  hymn  and  supplied  it  with  profanity.  Some 
thing  had  gone  wrong  with  the  lights  in  the  big  living  room. 
The  green  light  on  the  tall  brass  rod  was  out,  certain  wall 
brackets  glowed  dismally.  Hadn't  he  just  spoken  to  the 
Electric  Company  about  the  wiring?  If  there  was  anything 
he  naturally  abominated  it  was  coming  home  to  a  dungeon. 
He  hated  watery  half-lights  as  all  male-kind  are  supposed 
to  hate  them.  He  worshipped  Edison  as  the  Incas  adored 
the  sun.  Consequently  his  spirits  fell  like  winter  mercury 
as  he  groped  his  way  by  ponderous  articles  of  black  walnut 
furniture  until  he  had  found  the  switch  and,  with  an  im 
patient  punch  of  thumb,  caused  the  chandelier  which  hung 
from  the  ceiling  to  blaze  again. 

"Americus !" 

It  was  the  voice  of  his  wife  which  came  chidingly.  Cen 
tred  under  the  light  which  beat  upon  the  big,  comfortable, 
ugly  room,  he  stood  blinking  into  the  semi-darkness  and 
saw — or  thought  he  saw — what  had  never  appeared  to  him 
before.  His  Winifred  was  absorbingly  interested  in  a 
young  man;  vis-a-vis  in  an  alcove  she  sat  with  a  slender, 
fair-haired  youth,  talking  earnestly  in  a  tone  as  neutral  as 
the  lights  had  been. 

"Americus !"  Now  she  pitched  her  voice  to  a  shriller  key, 
which  was  more  the  way  she  talked  before  Mrs.  Modder- 
son  came  to  town.  "Turn  them  down — they're  dreadful." 

"What's  got  into  you,  Winnie?"  inquired  the  rattled 
interloper. 

"They're  garish,"  she  complained,  bringing  her  voice 
down  again.  "And,  Americus,  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr. 
Dulcimer." 

He  knew  it !    Hunch  had  again  triumphed  over  intuition. 

Americus  shuffled  forward  and  was  hypocritically  pleased 
to  meet  Mr.  Dulcimer.  The  slender  young  man  unwound 
himself  and  came  to  a  stand.  His  face  was  chalky,  his  hair 
the  shade  of  straw;  and  in  his  smile  there  was  saddish 


200  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

sweetness.  He  affected  rings  set  with  unhealthy  green 
stones. 

"Not  Joe  Dulcimer's  son?"  asked  Americus  quite  natu 
rally. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Gallop."  Dulcimer  spoke  with  the  suggestion 
of  a  lisp. 

"I  thought  you  were  dead,"  announced  Americus,  not 
trying  to  disguise  his  disappointment. 

"I've  been  away  studying,"  replied  he.  "And  I've  been 
practising  my  art  several  years  in  New  York." 

"Hum.     What's  your  art  ?" 

"Decorating." 

"That's  good.  I  guess  Joe  needs  a  good  window  trim 
mer  around  his  store." 

"Not  that!"  Dulcimer  stiffened  like  an  offended  lily. 
"Interior  decorating." 

Americus  was  going  to  sit  down,  but  thought  better  of  it. 

"I've  been  asking  Mr.  Dulcimer  for  some  advice,"  Wini 
fred  came  quickly  to  his  defence. 

"Well."  Americus  shuffled  grimly  away  toward  his  cor 
ner.  "I  don't  see  how  you  can  accomplish  much  by  sittin' 
in  the  dark — unless  you  expect  a  spirit  message." 

Settled  at  last  in  his  Morris  chair,  Americus  could  see, 
indistinct  in  the  twilight,  the  wavering  outlines  of  Wini 
fred's  guest,  perched  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  as  though  about 
to  fly.  What  the  deuce  was  Winny  up  to  now?  He 
growled  like  the  sequestered  bulldog  who  scents  a  cat,  then 
he  sighed  and  unfolded  the  sporting  sheet  of  the  Evening 
Courier. 

Prosperity  in  the  flour  business,  of  which  Americus  Gal 
lop  was  undisputed  chieftain  in  that  region,  had  brought  to 
his  home  a  new  standard  of  luxury.  This  had  been  mostly 
reflected  in  the  women  folks.  His  two  daughters,  Amelia 
and  America,  had  "been  out"  a  year  or  two  and  their  father 
had  learned  to  look  upon  their  expenses  as  a  sort  of  blind 
investment.  The  effects  of  finishing  school,  social  groom 
ing,  imported  gowns  were  so  obvious  in  Amelia  that  Ameri- 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  201 

cus  could  easily  see  his  money  coming  back  to  him  with  in 
terest  in  the  form  of  golden  culture.  Then  there  was 
Merry.  She  wasn't  always  right  about  things  as  Amelia 
was;  and  she  lacked  her  sister's  neat,  cameo-cut  beauty. 
Americus  wasn't  sure  that  his  younger  daughter  was  even 
pretty.  Secretly  he  adored  her  shadow.  Officially  he  wor 
ried  about  her. 

But  what  the  deuce  was  Winny  up  to  now? 

Behind  the  arsenical  sporting  sheet  he  could  hear  those 
soft  voices  droning  in  the  alcove.  It  was  mostly  Dulci 
mer's  lisping  note  with  an  occasional  exclamation  from  the 
lips  of  Winifred. 

"So  much  of  our  taste  .  .  .  we  have  no  national  colour- 
intelligence  .  .  .  symphonic  treatment  with  a  definite 
melodic  theme  .  .  .  oh,  nothing  garish  ...  a  spot  here  and 
there  for  accentuation  ...  a  virile  note  should  be  intro 
duced,  like  a  blare  of  trumpets  .  .  .  the  arrangement  I  se 
lected  in  Mrs.  Hornblower  Ballymoore's  drawing- 
room.  .  .  ." 

Americus  had  thought  so !  This  Dulcimer  boy  might  be 
miles  up  in  the  air,  but  he  was  working  round  to  business 
very  nicely. 

".  .  .  violence  in  colour  is  like  violence  in  life  .  .  .  crim 
inal  !  Yet  there  is  charm  in  brutality  ...  a  brutal  spot 
of  red,  let  us  say  .  .  .  some  rare  old  ox  blood  vazz  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Gallop  looked  sourly  up  from  an  analysis  of  the 
American  League  and  wondered  just  what  a  vazz  could  be. 

"By  ginger !"  he  decided  finally,  "he  means  a  vase !" 

It  was  not  until  the  Gallops,  as  a  family,  had  assembled 
round  the  knobby,  jig-sawed  black- walnut  dinner  table  that 
Americus  learned  the  worst  about  Mr.  Dulcimer.  Prepara 
tory  to  the  shock  his  eyes  were  again  offended  by  that  weird, 
disagreeable  half-light,  flickering  from  a  seven-branched 
candle-stick  in  the  centre  of  the  cloth.  Dimly  through  the 
obscure  atmosphere  he  could  see  the  familiar  features  of 
his  women-folk  and  the  gleam  of  the  decolletee,  for  they 


202  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

were  apparently  going  somewhere.  To  his  right  the  dainty 
Amelia  spooned  soup  with  a  perfection  of  skill.  To  his 
left  America,  white  of  skin,  bright  of  eye,  rather  hollow 
chested,  her  hank  of  auburn  hair  done  in  a  reckless  sort  of 
swirl,  was  attacking  the  fluid  with  her  usual  voracious 
appetite. 

"Winny,  is  this  economy  or  style  ?"  began  the  head  of  the 
house,  blinking  mildly  at  the  guttering  flame. 

Mrs.  Gallop  sat  looking  quite  the  duchess,  as  she  was  apt 
to  do  after  six-thirty,  when  her  iron-grey  hair  had  a  way  of 
going  into  a  coiffure  icy  with  rhinestones. 

"America,  dear,  do  sit  up !"  requested  the  dowager  ere 
she  gave  ear  to  her  anxious  lord.  "Is  what  economy  ?"  she 
at  last  inquired,  regarding  him  dimly  through  the  haze. 

"This  Coliseum  by  moonlight  effect.  Are  we  behind  with 
our  electric  light  bill?" 

"Not  as  I  am  aware,"  she  replied,  punctiliously  helping 
herself  to  olives. 

"Well,  why  not  switch  on  a  few?  I've  lost  the  way  be 
tween  my  plate  and  my  mouth." 

Mr.  Gallop  had  already  turned  to  the  waitress  when 
Winifred  countermanded  the  gesture. 

"Americus  !     I  wish  you  wouldn't  interfere." 

"But,  darling!  Nobody's  dead.  When  I  come  home 
nights  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  I  can't  look  at  my  family, 
be  cheerful  and " 

"Your  idea  of  cheerfulness,  of  course,  is  all  lights  blaz 
ing  at  once  and  the  Victrola  shouting  rag-time."  He  caught 
a  vague  impression  of  his  consort  shrugging  the  expansive 
ivory  of  her  shoulders.  "That's  the  trouble  with  you  Amer 
ican  men.  No  subtlety.  No  perspective.  No  sense  of 
values." 

"The  Glendennings,"  chimed  Amelia,  introducing  the 
name  of  the  next  richest  family  in  Harnessville,  "are  using 
candles  throughout  their  house." 

"That  accounts  for  it!"  snorted  Americus.  "Pete  Glen- 
denning  was  drunk  at  the  club  twice  last  week." 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  203 

The  faintest  echo  of  a  giggle  emanated  from  the  place 
where  America  sat;  but  her  mother's  disapproving  eye 
caught  only  the  demure,  downcast  glance  of  a  cat  lapping 
cream. 

There  came  a  momentary  silence  in  which  Mrs.  Gallop 
gathered  force. 

"If  you'd  only  do  something  with  your  mind,"  she  began 
cuttingly,  "instead  of  talking  business  all  day  long  and 
playing  pitch  with  a  lot  of  vulgarians  at  the  club,  maybe 
you'd  begin  to  appreciate  the  finer  things  of  life.  If  you'd 
take  the  pains  to  read  a  few  uplifting  books " 

"In  the  dark?"  asked  Americus  wickedly,  blinking  at  the 
candles. 

"We'll  not  discuss  that  point,"  replied  his  spouse,  snap 
ping  the  door  of  logic  and  pinching  his  fingers  in  the  jam. 
"It  wouldn't  do  a  bit  of  harm  for  you  to  know  something 
besides  money-making." 

"How  much  does  Dulcimer  ask  to  turn  this  house  into  a 
junk  shop?" 

He  fired  the  question  with  such  brutal  suddenness  that 
his  wife,  peering  at  him  through  the  seven  guttering  candles, 
betrayed  an  unguarded  surprise. 

"Mr.  Dulcimer  doesn't  express  himself  in  the  terms  of 
dollars  and  cents.  He  has  dedicated  his  life  to  creating 
beauty,  to  educating  the  American  people  in  domestic 
taste " 

"Who,  for  instance?" 

"I  suppose  you  have  never  heard  of  Mrs.  Hornblower 
Ballymoore  of  New  York?" 

"I  don't  pay  much  attention  to  the  movies  any  more." 

"Movies!"  Amelia  stiffened  at  the  shock  like  a  smaller 
and  prettier  Winifred.  America  choked  on  her  soup. 

"Aside  from  her  unequalled  social  position,"  explained 
the  good  lady  as  soon  as  she  was  able,  "Mrs.  Ballymoore 
is  one  of  America's  few  great  patrons  of  art.  It  is  a  dis 
tinguished  honour  for  any  artist  to  be  recognised  by  her." 

"What  then  ?"  asked  her  husband  meekly. 


204  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Carlo  Dulcimer  decorated  her  Fifth  Avenue  house,  that's 
what  then." 

Haughtily  Winifred  speared  a  slice  of  lamb.  Under  the 
table  Americus  could  feel  a  slight  pressure  on  his  toe;  of 
course  it  was  Merry  giving  him  the  secret  signal — one  short 
one  and  two  long — but  he  had  forgotten  whether  it  meant, 
"Keep  it  up !"  or  "Go  easy !"  Whatever  the  motive,  the 
contact  brought  comfort  and  courage  to  the  lonesome  de 
fender  of  Things  As  They  Are. 

After  dinner,  when  Amelia  and  her  mother  had  retired  to 
the  upper  realms  in  pursuit  of  evening  wraps,  America 
stayed  below  and  hovered  over  the  Morris  chair  where  her 
father  lounged  again. 

"America,  dear,  please  hurry!"  came  the  warning  from 
above. 

"Yes,  mother."  The  careless  girl  leaned  over  and  twined 
a  slim,  bare  arm  around  the  thick  neck  of  her  sire. 

"Daddy,"  she  whispered,  "we  might  as  well  face  the 
music.  We've  got  to  be  stylish,  haven't  we?  Carlo  Dulci 
mer's  got  all  Harnessville  going  with  his  lectures  on  'The 
Sin  of  Ugliness.'  Have  you  heard  Carlo  coo?" 

She  stood  away  and,  assuming  a  back-leaning  curve  from 
neck  to  heel,  writhed  her  fingers  in  an  imitation  of  the  up- 
lifter. 

"The  crime  of  garishness  .  .  .  the  tired  business  man 
demands  musical  comedy  in  art  as  well  as  drama  .  .  .  sub 
dued  tones  rest  the  soul  with  an  occasional  trumpet-note 
.  .  .  brutal,  brutal!" 

"If  I  owned  that  boy  I'd  kill  him!"  Americus  dropped 
his  paper. 

"Perhaps  you  might  arrange  to  do  it  anyhow,"  suggested 
his  own  darling  daughter,  kissing  him  ere  she  fled. 

For  a  long  time  after  his  women  folk,  sweeping  past  in 
various  shades  of  evening  grandeur,  had  departed  by  the 
big  front  door,  Gallop  lay  obesely  back  under  the  glaring 
radiance  of  his  green-shaded  light.  These  women !  As  he 
remembered  it,  thinking  back  to  his  boyhood,  they  had  been 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  205 

a  softer,  more  consoling  race  than  now.  And  yet,  come  to 
remember,  certain  cynical  comments  had  been  heard  from 
the  bearded  lips  of  his  sire.  But  there  was  no  doubt  that 
the  sex  had  changed  for  the  worse.  Everything  for  ap 
pearances  nowadays.  Style  had  taken  the  place  of  com 
fort.  Women  had  become  a  tribe  of  window  dressers. 

A  retrospective  glance  over  the  wealth  of  black-walnut 
furniture  he  had  inherited  reminded  him  of  another,  smaller 
house,  further  East,  where  his  mother's  care  had  arranged 
everything  for  the  comfort  of  the  family  head.  In  those 
days  the  dining  room  had  been  used  as  a  sitting  room  for 
the  whole  family  and  the  dining  table  had  been,  after  sup 
per,  an  assembly  spot.  There  his  father,  assuming  the 
official  dressing-gown  of  repose,  had  sat  with  his  wife  and 
children,  reading,  talking,  helping  with  the  lessons.  There 
hadn't  been  so  darned  much  visiting  round  in  those  days. 
People  stayed  at  home.  Only  relatives  and  intimates  were 
admitted  to  the  evening  circle,  which  was  sacred  to  privacy 
and  comfort.  The  table  was  not  littered  with  silver- framed 
photographs  of  young  mothers  in  full  evening  dress  tending 
the  baby,  or  antique  gift-books  or  curious  lamps  made  out 
of  Chinese  bowls.  It  had  been  frankly  a  dining  table, 
cleared  off  for  the  evening. 

Thus  Americus  Gallop  indulged  in  the  pre-Adamite 
pastime  of  saluting  the  good  old  days. 

Lately  women  had  got  notions,  he  continued  his  sad 
dening  philosophy.  Even  his  mother  in  her  declining  days 
had  decreed  a  special  "living  room,"  in  keeping  with  their 
station  in  society.  But  there  had  still  been  comfortable 
chairs  and  plenty  of  lights.  The  new  house  here  in  Har- 
nessville  had  begun  to  take  on  the  look  of  a  hotel  after  the 
children  grew  up.  Winifred  had  insisted  upon  a  "library" 
and  had  just  tolerated  Americus  in  his  corner  with  his  Mor 
ris  chair  and  his  green  light,  the  latter  shedding  brilliancy 
downward  like  an  inverted  funnel. 

Burdened  with  the  weight  of  these  reflections,  Americus 
bounced  to  his  feet,  crossed  the  big  room  and  switched  on 


206  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

the  big  chandelier.  From  thence  he  strode  into  the  dining 
room  and  caused  a  bath  of  light  to  pour  over  that  interior. 
He  gloomily  surveyed  the  scene  which  he  loved  and  loved 
deeply,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  he  had  grown  up  with 
it.  His  defiant  gaze  took  in  everything;  the  marble-topped 
side  tables;  the  curio  cabinet,  harbouring  relics  from  Colo 
rado  Springs  and  the  Mammoth  Cave;  the  gigantic  sofa, 
built  to  a  sort  of  Egyptian  design  and  inlaid  with  oblongs 
of  French  walnut;  the  knife-edged  steel  engravings,  illus 
trating  moral  and  patriotic  subjects.  Then  last  and  longest 
he  regarded  the  homely,  cosy  corner  he  called  his  own.  No 
style,  no  attempt  at  appearances ;  and  the  only  place  on 
earth  where  he  could  read  the  papers  in  perfect  satisfaction. 
Americus  Gallop  blew  his  nose,  then  abruptly  he  walked 
over  to  the  old-fashioned  hat-rack  where  he  selected  his 
Fedora  from  the  proper  peg.  A  moment  later  the  front 
door  slammed  so  violently  as  to  threaten  the  integrity  of  its 
needlessly  ornate  stained  glass  pane. 

in 

"If  you  don't  want  things  to  happen,"  saith  the  sage,  "stay 
at  home."  How  true  a  speech !  How  many  an  Ulysses,  re 
turning  unexpectedly  after  a  hard  season  on  the  road,  has 
found  his  house  profaned  by  stranger  influences,  effete 
Athenians  draping  art-chintz  over  the  altar  of  Poseidon! 

But  Americus  Gallop  couldn't  exert  his  entire  vigilance 
to  repelling  Dulcimer.  A  few  days  after  the  door-slamming 
episode  business  called  him  East  as  far  as  Chicago  and  he 
was  gone  nearly  two  months.  Upon  his  grateful  return  to 
the  ugly,  complicated  brick  house  on  the  Square  he  opened 
the  front  door  much  more  gently  than  he  had  closed  it ;  for 
he  was  hoping  against  hope.  Winifred  in  a  letter  had  hinted 
briefly  at  "some  repairs."  Therefore  it  was  painfully,  as 
though  the  latch-key  had  swollen  with  the  heat,  that  he 
opened  the  door  of  1211  Washington  Street  and  stood 
rooted. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  207 

Behold !  He  beheld.  His  first  gasping  thought  was  that 
there  had  been  a  fire  in  the  place  and  Winny  hadn't  told 
him.  A  sort  of  muddy,  ashen  texture  covered  the  walls. 
Upon  closer  observation  he  concluded  that  this  was  of  de 
liberate  design,  for  the  stuff,  when  he  touched  it,  felt  expen 
sive.  He  rubbed  up  his  eyeglasses,  which  the  heavy  weather 
had  somewhat  fogged,  and  took  another  look.  Stiff,  carven 
chairs — fearful  engines  upon  which  kings  might  have  been 
electrocuted — reared  their  high  backs  in  defiance  of  human 
anatomy.  Literally  the  floor  rang  to  the  stranger's  tread. 
Americus  unlimbered  his  roly-poly  person  and  bent  down 
to  touch  the  carpet — a  feat  he  could  never  have  accom 
plished  under  a  less  excitation.  Was  it  madness  ?  Had  the 
horrors  of  modern  travel  turned  his  brain?  There  was  no 
carpet  there.  The  space  underfoot  had  been  lain  with  a 
pinkish,  brownish  tiling,  such  as  is  sometimes  found  under 
the  chairs  in  aseptic  barber  shops. 

At  last  his  trembling  fingers  came  upon  the  switch  whose 
button  he  pressed,  flooding  the  madhouse  scene  with  light. 
Devastation  everywhere.  Beauty  like  the  Plague  of  Egypt 
had  marked  his  home. 

Not  a  vestige  of  the  historic  Gallop  furniture  remained. 
As  far  as  his  eye  could  reach  those  absolutely  unsittable 
chairs  insulted  him  with  their  back-breaking  contours. 
Sofas,  too,  springless  as  morgue  slabs,  carved  with  wreaths 
and  cupids  in  places  cunningly  designed  to  skin  the  elbow. 
Dull  prints  occupied  chaste  deserts  of  wall-space;  awful 
Japanese  nightmares,  representing  epileptic  Samurai  dis 
jointing  themselves  under  elaborate  kimonos. 

Americus  stalked  silently  into  the  dining  room.  Just  as 
he  had  expected.  Spindling  tables  and  chairs,  obviously  not 
to  be  touched  save  in  reverence  and  awe;  curious  white 
panelling  on  the  walls  running  up  to  a  terrible  Futurist 
border  representing  purple  pumpkins  at  play  among  blue 
tennis  balls.  The  wooden  bust  of  a  bald-headed  maiden 
with  almond  eyes  smirked  down  at  him  from  a  high  shelf. 


208  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Then  a  blighting  fear  came  to  Americus  Gallop  and  gripped 
him  by  the  heart. 

Had  they  been  monkeying  with  his  corner,  his  shrine, 
sacred  to  bright  light,  cheer  and  the  evening  edition?  It 
took  some  minutes  for  the  haunted  man  to  steel  himself. 
Then  numbly  he  strode  forth  and  hunted  out  what  had  been 
his  corner. 

Strangers  had  profaned  the  spot.  Wonderful  strangers 
they  were  to  be  sure,  aristocratic,  difficile  and  highly  unwel 
come.  It  was  as  though  a  royal  family  had  moved  into  a 
middle-class  apartment  and  set  about  making  themselves 
obnoxious.  Where  Mr.  Morris'  friendly  invention  had  once 
reclined,  offering  its  two  squares  of  apple-green  plush  to  the 
toil-worn  back,  here  sat  an  immense,  florid  golden  throne, 
silken  fringes  dangling  from  the  edges,  a  regal  coat  of  arms 
embroidered  into  its  tapestried  back.  A  porphyry  lamp  on 
a  marble  pillar  supported  an  exaggerated  flower-strewn 
shade,  perched  aloft  like  a  bit  of  atrocious  millinery. 

Americus  Gallop  sniffed  and,  sniffing,  turned.  Ke  wished 
to  see  no  more.  Half  way  up  the  stairs  he  met  his  wife 
coming  down,  dressed  for  the  street.  She  kissed  him  very 
sweetly  and  was,  of  course,  delighted  at  his  early  return. 

"And,  Americus,"  she  intimated  as  he  was  passing  her 
toward  the  second  landing,  "you  haven't  said  a  word  about 
it.  Haven't  you  seen  how  we've  improved?" 

"I  was  noticing,"  he  grunted.  "Where  do  you  propose 
to  set  Father  in  the  future  ?" 

"We've  gone  to  all  sorts  of  trouble  to  arrange  your  cor 
ner,"  she  went  on  in  the  affable  tone  which  betrayed  her 
guilt.  "It's  the  most  successful  arrangement  of  all. 
Haven't  you  seen  your  new  lamp  and  the  Venetian  throne 
chair?"  " 

"I'm  not  a  Venetian,"  he  growled.  "And  as  far  as  I  can 
make  out  those  Dodges  of  Venice  must  have  stood  up  a  lot 
or  else  wore  pillows  strapped  to " 

"Americus !"  she  warned  him  and  took  her  departure. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  209 

He  was  partially  consoled  upon  reaching  the  head  of  the 
stairs  to  find  that  Beauty  had  receded  at  the  top  step  and 
left  the  second  floor  undamaged.  In  a  little  ante-room  off 
Winny's  boudoir  he  found  his  Morris  chair  and  reading 
lamp  clustered  comfortably  in  a  corner  under  his  favourite 
steel  engraving,  a  romantic  piece  representing  rival  heroes 
of  the  Civil  War  shaking  hands  over  a  section  of  battle 
field.  There  was  a  walnut  rack  for  his  newspapers,  a  com 
petent  gas-log,  the  big  old-fashioned  sofa  from  downstairs. 
Altogether  the  scene  was  livable  for  him,  although  it  im 
parted  a  sense  of  isolation  as  though  he  were  a  defective 
member  of  the  family  to  be  kept  in  retirement. 

The  vigorous  America,  singing  at  the  top  of  her  lungs, 
came  in  upon  him,  smothered  him  with  kisses,  patted  him 
into  his  Morris  chair,  sat  on  an  arm  and  assured  him  that 
he  had  returned  in  time  to  save  a  fragment.  She  had  bor 
rowed  a  gingham  apron  from  somewhere,  her  reddish  hank 
was  braided  down  her  back  and  there  was  a  short  pencil- 
smudge  on  her  chin. 

"You  were  being  evicted,  old  dear,"  she  told  him.  "It 
was  to  the  second  hand  store  with  poor  Dad's  corner. 
You're  not  ornamental,  Pop.  Mr.  Dulcimer  says  your  Mor 
ris  chair  is  banal — and  he  turns  quite  pink  with  passion 
every  time  he  looks  at  your  reading  lamp.  Well,  I  per 
suaded  Mother  to  move  your  chamber  of  horrors  up  here." 

"My  sakes.     I  didn't  know  you  had  any  influence." 

"I  guess  I  was  pretty  atrocious.  Mommer  said  she'd  leave 
your  junk  be  if  I'd  stop  making  Mr.  Dulcimer  ridiculous 
in  public." 

"Is  that  milky  little  worm  still  infesting  the  town?" 

"The  town?     He's  infesting  Amelia." 

"D'you  mean  to  say  he's  got  the  nerve  to  presume 
*  » 

"Mother's  flattered  to  death,  of  course.  He  sticks  to 
Amelia  like  a  caterpillar  and  she's — well,  it's  just  what 
Mr.  Coleridge  said  in  the  poem,  'A  damsel  with  a  Dulci 
mer.*" 


210  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"You  don't  say  so !"  This  was  Mr.  Gallop's  formula  for 
receiving  news  which  he  did  not  choose  to  flatter  with  his 
opinion. 

"That's  a  sketchy  get-up,  Merry,"  he  volunteered  at  last, 
surveying  his  daughter's  apron  and  the  pencil  smudge  under 
her  chin. 

"I've  been  drawing,"  she  announced  breathlessly. 

"Drawing  what?" 

"Pictures." 

"Land  of  Canaan!    Have  you  got  it,  too?" 

He  must  have  swooned  away  had  she  not  promptly  in 
formed  him, 

"Oh,  nothing  serious.  Heaven  save  me  from  it.  Awful 
blobs,  Daddy.  Honestly,  somebody  had  to  do  it." 

"Do  what?"  he  puzzled. 

"Mr.  Dulcimer  and  Mr.  Dulcimer's  Disciples  and  Mother 
and  Amelia  and  the  Pilgrim's  Chorus  and  the  Uplift  in 
Harnessville — you  look  tired,  Daddy  darling.  Want  to  see 
something  foolish?" 

She  bounded  forth  and  came  stamping  back  again,  a  great 
sheaf  of  paper  under  her  capable  arm. 

"First,"  she  announced,  bringing  forth  a  sheet,  "this  is 
Mr.  Dulcimer  reproving  the  Family  Furniture." 

A  spirited,  insulting  and  highly  lifelike  representation  of 
Mr.  Dulcimer  writhed  in  the  centre  of  the  composition,  to 
his  right  the  mid- Victorian  sofa,  to  his  left  the  Gallop  what 
not.  Disgust  was  on  his  pallid  features,  his  fingers  were 
plucking  invisible  weeds  from  thin  air;  and  from  his  in-, 
drawn  lips  emerged,  in  a  caricaturist's  cloud,  the  word 
"Banal!" 

"Mr.  Dulcimer  Having  an  Ecstasy,"  she  next  sang  out, 
bringing  forth  a  second  sheet  which  revealed  the  prophet  of 
domestic  beauty  holding  up  a  strip  of  art-cretonne  while 
several  of  Harnessville's  best  known  club  women  knelt  in 
adoration.  Mrs.  Gallop's  likeness  was  conspicuously  cen 
tred  in  the  group.  Americus  grinned  wickedly,  then  re 
marked  in  a  tone  of  grave  admonition, 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  211 

"You  oughtn't  to  do  that  to  your  mother,  Merry." 

"Well,  she  was  in  the  crowd,"  replied  America  carelessly. 
"And  you  know  what  happens  to  the  innocent  bystander." 

"Give  me  a  kiss,"  he  demanded.  And  as  soon  as  that 
filial  act  was  accomplished, 

"Better  hide  'em  deep,  Merry.  Because,  if  your  mother 
should  see  that  stuff " 

Under  the  well  established  law  that  nothing  stands  still, 
Decoration  advanced  steadily  in  the  Gallop  household.  The 
first  time  Americus  heard  Carlo  Dulcimer's  purring  voice 
in  an  upstairs  hall  he  crept  into  his  improvised  reading  room 
and  muttered  in  the  calmness  of  despair, 

"Give  him  two  weeks." 

Americus  gave  him  four  days  too  long,  for  he  came  home 
early  one  afternoon  to  find  overalled  strangers  tacking 
gaudy  chintz  all  over  his  newly  made  holy  of  holies.  His 
Morris  chair,  his  trombone  lamp,  his  patriotic  engravings 
had  again  been  spirited  away  and  they  were  already  moving 
in  green  and  white  furniture  of  an  unknown  material  and 
exotic  pattern.  Next  came  cushions  to  match  the  curtains. 
Americus  gloated  morbidly,  glorying  in  his  own  pain  like 
one  of  those  fabled  monsters  who  obtain  nourishment  by 
swallowing  themselves.  Another  sardonic  substitute  for 
his  Morris  chair  had  been  shoved  into  a  corner.  This  time 
it  was  one  of  those  slippery  wicker  hermaphrodites  which 
go  by  the  name  of  chaise  tongue.  A  tall  thing  on  a  long 
white  pole  with  a  ridiculous  chintz  ruffle  on  top  stood  for 
an  illumination. 

"What's  the  latest  idea  ?"  he  asked  Winny  feebly  as  soon 
as  that  arbiter,  busily  bossing  workmen,  appeared  on  the 
scene. 

"We  had  to  have  an  upstairs  sitting  room,"  she  took  time 
to  explain.  "So  many  people  drop  in  informally  in  the 
morning  and  at  odd  hours.  It's  perfectly  barbarous  to  re 
ceive  informal  callers  in  the  drawing  room." 

"Good  night !"     Americus  Gallop  spoke  not  in  the  Ian- 


212  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

guage  of  the  street,  but  with  the  finality  of  a  broken  spirit. 
"My  address  after  office  hours  will  be  the  Falstaff  Club." 

"Americus,  you're  not  going  to  have  one  of  your  spells — 
when  I'm  so  busy?"  She  looked  sincerely  worried. 

"I  am  not,"  said  he.  "But  I  am  looking  for  a  place  where 
I  can  sit  down — where  I  can  sit  down  without  having  to 
wear  chintz  pajamas." 

"You're  a  hopeless  Philistine,"  she  sighed. 

"I  am,"  he  replied,  "and  I'm  being  beautified  out  of 
house  and  home." 

This  is  fighting  talk,  the  food  of  litigants.  And  many  a 
prospective  divorce  has  threatened  thus  and  sued  afterward. 
Winifred  Gallop  wondered  what  he  was  going  to  do  as  she 
saw  her  lord  charge  out  of  the  house;  and  she  would  have 
been  relieved  to  know  that  Americus  was  wondering  the 
same  thing. 

His  coat  collar  turned  up  in  the  approved  mode  of  the 
Apache,  his  hat  over  his  ears,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
heart  in  his  shoes,  he  slushed  along  through  the  rainy  streets 
contemplating  a  larger,  wetter  alcoholism  than  had  ever 
solaced  the  grief  of  Pete  Glendenning. 

"Da-a-ad-dy !"  A  treble  voice  in  breathless  pursuit  caught 
the  ear  between  the  hat  brim  and  the  upturned  collar.  He 
turned  sourly  to  behold  A_merica,  her  cheeks  brightest  pink 
from  vigorous  walking,  her  eyes  flashing  blue,  her  flimsy 
collar  flaring  back  in  the  wind. 

"What  are  you  escaping  from  now,  old  dear?" 

"I'm  through,  Merry,"  he  mumbled,  pointing  to  the  brick 
red  towers  he  had  once  called  home. 

"Daddy,  you  haven't  got  the  idea  at  all,"  she  giggled. 
"II  faut  soufrlr  pour  ctre  swell.  If  you're  really  smart,  you 
know,  you're  not  supposed  to  be  comfortable." 

"All  I  ask  is  a  soft,  quiet  place  where  I  can  sit  down  and 
read  my  paper,"  he  all  but  wept. 

"Probably  the  Apollo  Belvedere  thinks  the  same  thing. 
But  it  can't  be  done." 

"I'm  going  over  to  the  Club  to  live." 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  213 

"You  sweet  old  thing,  don't  be  selfish,"  she  pouted. 
"They  don't  allow  ladies  at  the  Club." 

"That's  the  very  idea,"  he  bitterly  informed  her. 

"You're  a  nice  one — leaving  your  daughter  in  a  museum 
and  going  off  to  the  Club  to  live.  And  just  as  I  was  ar 
ranging  our  lives." 

"Well,  chick,  it's  up  to  you,"  he  relented. 

"I've  found  ^  rat's  nest,"  she  announced  mysteriously, 
holding  him  by  the  arm  to  prevent  further  retreat. 

"A  what?" 

"Up  in  the  garret.  There's  an  old  trunk  room  where 
nobody  goes  since  Mother's  taken  a  notion  to  store  things 
down  in  the  cellar." 

Americus  demurred  and  took  a  few  steps  as  he  tem 
porised, 

"I  might  look  it  over  and  see  how  it  can  be  fixed." 

"Come  on !"  she  urged  enthusiastically.  "It's  miles  away 
from  the  art  centre.  Nobody  would  ever  care  to  follow  us 
there.  Come  back  and  take  a  look  at  it." 

Reluctantly  Americus  Gallop  doubled  his  tracks  over  his 
line  of  retreat.  America's  air  became  cannier  and  cannier 
as  she  approached  the  big  brick  house ;  and  as  they  neared 
that  landmark  she  beckoned  her  father  into  an  alley  where 
a  gate  door  led  through  a  wall  into  the  servants'  entrance. 

"We  can  always  come  this  way,"  she  whispered,  "nobody 
in  the  world  will  ever  know." 

Up  the  creaky  back  stairs  they  tiptoed,  past  the  second 
story  to  the  third,  down  the  narrow  hall  by  the  servants' 
rooms,  across  an  attic  loft  devoted  to  outcast  Gallop  relics. 
And  at  last,  under  the  rafters,  America  stopped  by  a  little, 
low  white  door  to  which  she  leaned  and  inserted  a  latch 
key.  The  mysterious  door  swung  open,  and  as  the  girl 
switched  on  the  overhanging  cluster  of  lights  Americus  was 
aware  of  Paradise. 

Far  above  the  disturbance  of  housekeeping,  out  of  the 
way  of  decorators  and  domestic  uplifters,  among  the  bare 
boards,  under  the  eaves  reposed  his  Morris  chair,  his  read- 


214  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

ing  lamp,  his  collection  of  patriotic  steel  engravings,  his 
black  walnut  sofa  with  the  Egyptian  legs.  Peace  and  with 
drawal  from  an  unsympathetic  world ! 

"Who  did  that?"  He  stood  transfixed  in  the  doorway, 
his  fat  cheeks  wrinkled  to  a  smile,  tears  brightening  his  little 
grey  eyes. 

"America  Gallop,  interior  decorator,"  she  announced. 

"Now  don't  start  calling  names,"  grinned  her  favourite 
parent,  throwing  himself  into  the  solace  of  the  apple  green 
cushions. 

IV 

So  the  Rat's  Nest  became  an  established  retreat  for  the 
dissenting  members  of  the  Gallop  family.  Here  content 
ment  caused  the  air  to  quiver,  much  as  wheat  fields  quiver 
under  an  August  sun.  Of  afternoons  Americus  went  di 
rectly  from  his  office  to  his  adored  garret,  where  he  usually 
found  America  scrawling  away  at  her  sketches  as  she  heated 
water  over  an  electric  stove,  preparatory  to  Father's  tea. 
But  America  was  cultivating  a  heedless  and  noisy  following 
of  young  men  who  employed  her  days  and  sometimes  kept 
her  away  from  the  sanctuary  at  the  hour  of  Mr.  Gallop's 
return.  At  such  times  he  was  very  lonely  indeed.  Then 
she  would  breeze  in  with  something  new  about  Mr.  Dulci 
mer,  who  was  now  reducing  poor  Amelia  to  the  aesthetic 
pulp  of  his  ideal. 

If  Winifred  knew  about  the  Rat's  Nest  she  was  too  busy 
to  include  it  in  her  raids.  The  civic  pulchritude  of  Har- 
nessville  quite  absorbed  her  time  nowadays.  The  Gallop 
home  was  the  first  interior  which  Carlo  Dulcimer  had 
"done"  in  that  thriving  municipality  and  Mrs.  Gallop  basked 
in  the  prestige  it  gave  her.  She  discovered  herself  the 
crowned  arbitrix  elegantiarum,  proclaimed  as  a  critic  and 
patroness  of  the  arts.  Mr.  Dulcimer's  lectures  continued. 
Harnessville  was  to  become  the  Athens  of  the  West,  Mr. 
Dulcimer  furnishing  beauty  at  his  regular  rate  per  yard. 

It  was  then  that  the  agitation  about  the  Municipal  Audi- 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  215 

torium  crescendoed  to  a  climax.  This  great  building,  which 
Harnessville  had  been  constructing  by  popular  subscription 
over  a  number  of  years,  still  lacked  adequate  decorations. 
When  the  Committee  on  Art,  munitioned  by  a  twenty  thou 
sand  dollar  fund,  was  wrangling  over  colour  schemes  and 
materials  the  enterprising  Dulcimer  insinuated  himself  into 
the  argument.  With  him  came  drawings  and  figures  and 
a  roll  of  samples.  The  Committee  was  entirely  composed 
of  ladies  with  Mrs.  Gallop  in  the  chair.  Result,  Carlo  sent 
to  New  York  for  materials  and  enlarged  his  offices. 

It  was  then  that  Uncle  Harry  Newcross,  local  philan 
thropist,  did  a  most  melodramatic  thing.  He  died.  His  end 
came  after  a  series  of  fits,  superinduced  by  a  violent  quarrel 
with  his  family.  His  substantial  fortune,  when  the  will  was 
read,  was  bequeathed  to  almost  every  enterprise  alien  to  the 
interests  of  the  Newcross  clan.  A  prison  reform  society 
got  some,  an  insane  asylum  more,  and  fifty  thousand  dol 
lars  in  cash  was  to  be  laid  aside  to  be  devoted  to  mural 
paintings  for  the  new  Auditorium,  which  had  been  Uncle 
Harry's  weakness  in  his  declining  years. 

The  loss  to  the  Newcross  family  was  an  exhilarating  gain 
to  the  beautifiers  of  Harnessville.  The  Art  Committee  gave 
a  memorial  tea  to  Uncle  Harry's  shade  and  the  cloth  was 
spread  in  Mrs.  Gallop's  embellished  home,  wherein  Mr. 
Dulcimer  grew  impassioned  over  his  Ceylon  and  went  so  far 
as  to  declare  that  life  was  Greek,  a  sentiment  which,  some 
how,  brought  forth  wonderfully  enunciated  expostulations 
from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Modderson,  lecturer  on  Articulation. 
Americus  Gallop,  who  heard  echoes  of  this  elegant  war  as 
he  crept  up  the  back  stairs  toward  his  retreat,  sighed  and 
thanked  the  Lord  that  he  was  well  out  of  it.  America,  too, 
seemed  to  agree  with  him,  for  he  found  her  in  the  little 
attic  room,  rapidly  pencilling  a  page  in  her  big  portfolio, 
serene  and  somewhat  messy  in  her  borrowed  gingham  apron. 

"Who's  this  Admah  Hoag?"  asked  Americus,  as  soon  as 
he  had  tossed  his  overcoat  and  hat  on  the  mid- Victorian 
sofa. 


216  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Oh,"  said  Merry,  chewing  the  end  of  a  pencil  as  she 
looked  up,  "what  about  him?" 

"As  I  came  up  I  heard  Dulcimer  making  a  speech.  He 
was  saying  'Admah  Hoag' — you  know  how  he  would  say  it." 

"You  poor  ignorant  old  dear!  Haven't  you  heard  of 
Sargent  or  Whistler  or  Michael  Angelo?  Hoag  is  all  of 
those.  He  gets  his  medals  by  the  barrel.  I  think  he's  a 
bore." 

"What  does  Dulcimer  want  of  him?" 

"I  can't  make  out,"  confessed  Merry,  cocking  her  head 
sidewise  at  the  sheet  over  which  she  leaned.  "He's  crazy 
to  get  Admah  here  to  do  the  auditorium." 

"Working  it  on  a  commission  basis,  probably." 

"Sordid  !"  commented  his  daughter  in  the  Dulcimer  voice. 

"If  he's  another  specimen  like  that  Dulcimer  kid  I'll 
wreck  the  train.  This  thing  has  got  to  stop." 

"I  guess  he's  pretty  bad,"  she  cheerfully  assured  him. 
"Still,  he  may  be  funny — I  hope  so.  I'm  getting  a  little 
tired  of  doing  Dulcimer  over  and  over  again." 

"Well,  if  he's  Carlo's  friend,  that's  all  I  want  to  know 
about  him." 

"It's  queer,"  she  murmured  abstractedly,  her  deep  blue 
eyes,  which  were  slightly  near-sighted,  very  close  to  the 
page.  "I  can't  make  out  just  what  Carlo  wants.  He's  keen 
to  wish  this  Hoag  on  Harnessville,  but  he's  gosh-awful 
modest  about  dragging  his  own  name  into  it.  For  instance, 
when  the  Committee  sends  letters  and  telegrams  and  procla 
mations  to  the  Great  One,  Carlo  fairly  screams  that  they 
mustn't  mention  Dulcimer.  They  wanted  to  send  Carlo 
East  as  a  special  envoy  to  coax  the  genius  with  sugar.  No 
enthusiasm  from  Carlo.  All-of-a-sudden  shyness." 

"Then  those  women  are  seriously  trying  to  bring  another 
Blight  to  Harnessville?"  moaned  the  afflicted  husband  and 
father. 

"Yes.  But  between  you  and  me,  I  don't  think  he'll  come. 
The  Committee  has  tried  all  the  bait  there  is.  Mother  has 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  217 

even  stooped  to  signing  herself  W.  A.  Gallop,  because  she 
hears  that  Admah  is  a  professional  woman-hater." 

"He'll  come  all  right,"  persisted  Americus  bleakly. 

"Maybe  so,"  allowed  his  daughter.  "But  there's  no  tell 
ing  what  he'll  do  when  he  sees  the  Auditorium.  He  might 
come  right  down  with  an  attack  of  temperament  and  go 
home." 

"He'll  do  the  job,"  grunted  the  unrelenting  one. 

"Don't  be  sure  about  it,  old  dear.  He's  a  perfect  bear. 
He's  written  one  reply  wanting  to  know  where  Harness- 
ville  is,  what  fifty  thousand  dollars  is  and  what  good  a  lot 
of  pictures  is  going  to  do  our  old  Auditorium.  The  strain 
is  killing  Mother  by  inches.  They're  downstairs  now  com 
posing  a  telegram  asking  him  for  pity's  sake  to  come  to 
town  just  for  a  day  and  look  over  the  Auditorium." 

"He'll  come  and  he'll  paint  the  picture,"  echoed  her  father 
like  the  antistrophe  in  a  Greek  tragedy. 

"He's  a  very  busy  artist,"  she  pointed  out.  "He's  got 
orders  to  paint  pictures  all  over  Grand  Central  Depots  and 
Metropolitan  Museums  in  sixteen  States." 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference." 

"Why  this  all-fired  cocksureness  ?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  art,"  replied  the  true  Philis 
tine.  "But  I  do  know  how  far  fifty  thousand  dollars  will 
fetch  an  artist." 

"That's  some  agrument." 

"And  not  only  that.  If  your  mother's  got  her  mind  set 
on  him,  he'll  come  if  it  takes  a  row  of  caterpillar  tractors 
all  the  way  from  here  to  Omaha." 

Americus  was  right  in  his  prediction.  The  Harnessville 
Eagle  came  out  next  morning  with  the  jubilant  announce 
ment  that  the  celebrated  painter  had  been  induced  by  the 
Committee  on  Art  to  come  and  be  persuaded.  Americus 
never  found  courage  to  ask  his  wife  how  she  did  it.  Her 
eyes  had  softened  to  an  ideal  then  hardened  to  a  purpose, 
that  was  all.  She  had  willed  it.  Naturally  Hoag  was 
coming. 


218  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


Admah  Hoag,  just  as  his  aunt  had  pointed  out,  had  never 
been  West  of  Pittsburg  in  all  his  travels,  which  had  taken 
him  to  student  quarters  in  Paris,  lodgings  in  London  and 
some  dubious  inns  as  far  East  as  Vladivostok.  Like  many 
another  American  born  genius  he  entertained  vague  and 
somewhat  childish  ideas  about  his  own  country  beyond  the 
exotic  Babel  which  is  its  metropolis.  Therefore  when  he 
boarded  the  late  train  for  Chicago  he  had  pleasing  visions 
of  broad  spaces,  the  direct  heritage  of  Kit  Carson,  of  peo 
ple  who  spoke  straight  from  the  heart  and  twanged  most 
honestly  when  they  spoke.  Lovingly  he  nursed  the  super 
stition  that  East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  that  somewhere 
in  the  distant  sunset  there  lived  a  race  who  hunted  jack- 
rabbits  and  disdained  the  pursuit  of  social  lions.  The  fact 
that  he  was  running  away  gave  him  not  the  slightest  shame. 
As  he  had  argued  it  out,  he  owed  less  than  nothing  to  Mrs. 
Ballymoore  and  her  hypocritical  tribe.  Perhaps  it  would  be 
a  bit  hard  on  Aunt  Pinny,  but  she  had  gone  beyond  her 
rights  in  trying  to  force  him  again  into  the  life  he  so  cor 
dially  detested. 

When  he  changed  cars  at  Chicago  the  sharpshooter's  eye 
of  America's  most  promising  painter  saw  there  but  another 
New  York  equally  mad  and  unequally  balanced.  The  West 
ward-flying  train  revealed  to  him  refreshing  spaces  between 
towns  which,  somewhat  to  his  discouragement,  exhibited 
smart  motors,  paved  streets  and  adequate  lighting  systems. 
He  was  somehow  grateful  for  the  lights,  because  Admah 
Hoag  had  a  sneaking  fondness  for  electricity,  rightly  em 
ployed.  Taken  all  in  all,  he  found  the  wilds  somewhat 
tamer  than  he  had  been  led  to  expect ;  and  although  he  was 
not  one  of  your  greenhorns  who  look  for  painted  redskins 
in  the  outskirts  of  St.  Louis,  he  confessed  to  disappointment 
when  he  saw  so  few  sombreros  and  so  many  economical 
motors  along  the  sidings. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  219 

•^ *~ ^"™ """^ -^ ^— — — ^-. 

His  spirits  rose  as  the  train  roared  on  toward  Harness- 
ville.  During  the  morning  he  had  looked  upon  many  broad 
acres,  neatly  fenced  in,  and  had  seen  wide-hatted  men  among 
the  wintry  fields.  The  porter  assured  him  that  the  train 
was  only  eight  minutes  late,  which  was  a  prodigy.  Pres 
ently  they  slowed  up  and  began  steaming  into  the  suburbs. 
Neat  houses  in  rows  reminded  him  uncomfortably  of  Phila 
delphia.  Splendid  pavements  appeared  along  the  track  as 
they  progressed.  Automobiles  became  thicker  and  more  ex 
pensive;  on  a  low  hill  a  handsome  Doric  building  loomed. 
Admah  Hoag  shuddered  at  the  sight,  because  it  reminded 
him  disagreeably  of  Mrs.  Ballymoore,  the  Pan-Hellenic 
Building  and  the  haunting  memory  of  Carlo  Dulcimer.  And 
this  was  all  far  behind  him,  thank  the  Lord ! 

It  was  an  expensive  modern  station  into  which  the  train 
shuttled  to  a  stop.  The  scene  might  have  been  metropolitan, 
only  that  the  crowd  showed  no  evidences  of  metropolitan 
misery.  There  seemed  to  be  a  preponderance  of  women. 
.  .  .  Many  high-powered  automobiles  stood  banked  against 
the  concrete  platform. 

Admah  Hoag,  shunner  of  teas  and  receptions,  sworn 
enemy  of  all  public  ceremonies  and  such  like  cant,  got  all 
this  in  a  glance  of  his  sharpshooter's  eye  as  they  were  bun 
dling  him  and  his  simple  baggage  out  of  the  train.  He 
wished  there  weren't  so  many  people  about  to  stare  and 
make  gestures.  Evidently  a  great  number  of  passengers 
were  expected  off  at  Harnessville,  for  there  was  a  throng, 
mostly  female,  and  every  well-trimmed  hat  was  cocked  his 
way.  He  came  down  centre  stage  through  the  chorus,  as  it 
were,  and  he  could  feel  his  complexion  brick-reddening  as 
he  advanced. 

"Mr.  Hoag?"  A  tall,  thin  lady  with  a  turban  came  out 
of  the  chorus  and  took  his  hand. 

"Er — ha "  This  was  the  speech  by  which  he  first 

endeared  himself  to  local  admirers. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Gallop,  Chairman  of  the  Committee  on  Art," 
she  was  telling  him  as  his  frightened  senses  at  once  realised 


220  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

that  the  mythical  W.  A.  Gallop  now  stood  before  him.  An 
infinite  sea  of  trimmed  hats,  toques,  bonnets,  Gainsbor- 
oughs,  Tarn  o'  Shanters  seemed  to  hedge  him  in  like  en 
chanted  flowers. 

"And  this  is  Mrs.  Modderson,  Chairman  of  the  Commit 
tee  on  Entertainment." 

A  smallish,  sallow  lady  whose  popping  black  eyes  were 
seared  below  with  brownish  circles  seemed  excruciatingly 
glad  to  meet  him.  Wringing  his  hand,  in  a  remarkably 
sonorous  voice  she  said  something  about  Dante  in  exile 
from  his  native  Florence.  The  platform  swam  round  and 
round.  Admah  dropped  his  suit-case. 

"And  Mrs.  Glendenning  of  the  Committee  on  Arrange 
ments,"  Mrs.  Gallop  tolled  on,  "and  Mrs.  Clark  of  the  Com 
mittee  on  Ways  and  Means  and  Mrs.  Hobuck,  Chairman  of 
the  Finance  Committee.  .  .  ." 

Admah  Hoag  gave  one  frightened  glance  over  his  shoul 
der,  thinking  only  of  escape.  The  train  was  already  pulling 
out  of  the  station.  No  friendly  nightmare  had  ever  come 
to  warn  him  of  this  situation.  He  had  travelled  all  the  way 
from  New  York  to  avoid  a  reception  and,  at  the  end  of  a 
trying  journey,  had  walked  right  into  the  outstretched  hands 
of  another ! 

He  realised  how  like  a  silly  ass  he  must  have  leered  as 
he  stood  there,  utterly  dumb  in  the  midst  of  the  throng  who 
had  come  to  do  him  honour. 

"But,  Mrs.  Gallop,"  he  at  last  found  voice  to  say,  "I — 
I'm  not  very  well."  This,  of  course,  was  preposterous  on 
the  face  of  it — "I  don't  want  you  to  go  to  all  this  trouble, 
you  know — all  this  bother  and  fuss.  I  shouldn't  mind  if 
you'd  just  give  me  a  bite  to  eat  and  let  me  spend  the  day 
looking  over  your  Auditorium — I've  only  a  few  hours  with 
you " 

"The  train  East  doesn't  leave  until  noon  to-morrow,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Gallop  decisively.  "We  are  anxious  to  welcome 
so  distinguished  a  guest  to  our  city  and  to  do  everything  in 
our  power  to  make  your  stay  a  pleasant  one." 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  221 

"I — I  appreciate  the  honour,"  faltered  Admah,  faintly 
remembering  his  manners. 

"We  are  the  honoured  ones,"  she  assured  him  in  her  most 
positive  tone. 

He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  something  worse  was 
about  to  happen,  for  the  plumes  and  flowers  around  him 
nodded  as  to  a  Spring  zephyr  as  a  small  runabout  came  to 
a  halt  by  the  platform.  Indistinctly  Admah  could  see  a 
slender  man  with  a  green  hat,  and  he  felt  the  encouragement 
which  one  male  can  give  another  in  such  a  situation.  Into 
his  presence  the  young  man  was  finally  hustled  and  as  the 
spokeslady  led  him  to  the  proper  introductory  distance  the 
two  opposing  males  stood  gazing  eye  for  eye. 

And  Admah  Hoag  saw  in  the  pale,  seraphic  visage  which 
smiled  a  little  nervously  the  much-to-be-avoided  Carlo  Dul 
cimer,  who  had  done  so  much  to  make  New  York  unbear 
able  for  him ! 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hoag?"  The  decorator  swayed 
like  a  lily  and  offered  a  dead  hand. 

"Ah,  then  you  know  Mr.  Hoag?" 

"We've  met  before.     How  d'you  do,  Dulcimer?" 

Momentarily  the  painter  lost  his  shyness  and  regarded 
his  former  rival  quite  coolly.  Dulcimer,  too,  seemed  curi 
ously  unabashed. 

"If  you  only  knew  what  an — impulse — your  coming  has 
given  this  town !"  cooed  the  lymphatic  one. 

"This  your  town,  Dulcimer?"  asked  the  genius,  noting 
the  air  of  proprietorship. 

"In  a  way— 

"Mr.  Dulcimer  is  a  Harnessville  boy,"  upspoke  a  cheer 
ful,  matronly  voice  from  the  background;  and  it  imparted 
quite  a  shock  to  hear  this  pampered  orchid  of  Fifth  Ave 
nue  mentioned  as  a  "Harnessville  boy."  He  had  never 
thought  of  him  as  coming  from  any  place  except,  perhaps, 
the  moon. 

"Harnessville,"  the  indefatigable  Dulcimer  cooed  on, 
"needs  all  we — you  and  I — can  give  it." 


222  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Admah  Hoag  was  wondering  just  what  he  and  Mr.  Dul 
cimer  in  partnership  had  to  offer. 

"We  owe  so  much  to  Mr.  Dulcimer,"  Mrs.  Gallop  was 
telling  him.  Her  manner  reminded  him  disagreeably  oi 
Mrs.  Ballymoore.  "Don't  you  think  his  work  has  been  in 
valuable  to  the  Movement?" 

Admah  was  quite  sure  it  had.  A  moment  later  he  was 
being  introduced  to  a  pretty,  rather  insipid  girl  as  Mrs. 
Gallop's  daughter,  and  as  this  young  thing  stuck  close  to  the 
side  of  Dulcimer,  obviously  under  his  spell,  the  artist  won 
dered  in  a  flash  if  the  decorator  had  carried  his  favourite 
business  methods  so  far  West.  He  was  given  little  time  to 
reflect  on  this  point,  however,  for  Mrs.  Gallop  was  pulling 
him  out  of  the  affable  hands  of  Mrs.  Glendenning  and 
shoving  him  toward  the  phalanx  of  waiting  automobiles. 
It  seemed  that  the  ladies  had  been  quarrelling  over  whose 
car  should  contain  the  celebrity.  Mrs.  Gallop  got  him,  just 
as  she  got  most  of  her  mortal  desires ;  and  flanked  on  the 
right  by  the  lady  with  the  carven  jaw  and  on  the  left  by 
the  lymphatic  beautifier,  Admah  settled  himself  into  the 
tonneau  of  the  handsomest  vehicle  to  be  seen. 

The  chauffeur  had  just  eased  in  the  clutch  and  warped 
the  wheel  to  position  when  a  vision  swam  into  Admah's 
ken.  She  was  tall  and  natural  and  somehow  lovely,  and 
under  her  little  hat  peeped  a  hank  of  tawny  hair.  Her  eyes 
were  heavenly,  her  mouth  somewhat  irregular  and  generous, 
and  her  skin  was  of  that  perfection  which  comes  to  auburns 
who  do  not  freckle. 

"Shall  I "  she  sang  out,  looking  first  at  Mrs.  Gallop, 

then  at  an  extra  seat  which  was  vacant. 

"Mrs.  Glendenning  will  take  care  of  you,"  announced 
the  masterful  lady,  just  as  they  were  slipping  away  along 
the  smooth  pavement. 

Instantaneously  the  artist's  eye  caught  one  humorous,  un 
derstanding  look  which  plainly  said,  "Poor  dear !  They've 
got  you  where  they  want  you!" 

As  they  rolled  away  he  looked  back  and  caught  a  glint  of 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  223 

her  green  coat  and  the  strip  of  fur  on  her  small  hat.  She 
was  gazing  after  him  and  he  was  sure  her  lips  still  held  that 
same  satiric  smile. 

It  seemed  as  though  all  Harnessville  had  come  out  to  view 
the  triumphal  entry.  As  they  neared  the  centre  of  town  he 
could  see  the  residents  packed  like  flies  upon  the  sidewalks ; 
the  scene  only  lacked  the  aspect  of  waving  flags  and  patri 
otic  bunting  to  give  his  casual  trip  to  Harnessville  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  Presidential  tour.  His  blushes  knew  all  the 
shadings  from  pink  to  purple  along  that  progress,  during 
which  he  appreciated  all  the  feelings  of  the  young  calf  being 
dragged  from  its  mother's  side  to  the  slaughter  pen.  In 
semi-rational  moments  he  wondered  if  he  should  stand  up 
in  the  tonneau,  as  he  had  seen  candidates  do,  and  remove 
his  hat  from  left  to  right.  Apparently  they  were  driving 
him  to  some  sort  of  ceremony. 

"Since  Mr.  Kleinmetz  left  us,"  Mrs.  Gallop  was  saying 
on,  "our  stringed  quartette  isn't  what  it  used  to  be." 

Their  intention  was  now  obvious.  There  would  be  a 
programme.  They  were  going  to  kill  him  to  slow  music. 

"Ah,  but  the  artistry  of  Chomvitz!"  came  the  echoing 
Dulcimer. 

Admah  Hoag's  sense  of  humour,  stalled  somewhere  in 
the  background,  told  him,  as  by  long-distance  telephone,  that 
here  was  a  situation  which  served  him  jolly  good  and  right: 
Meanwhile  he  was  floundering  among  attempted  answers 
to  Mrs.  Gallop's  queries  as  to  the  progress  of  the  Philhar 
monic  and  the  destiny  of  the  Kneisels. 

At  last  they  came  to  a  halt  in  front  of  a  pretty  Colonial 
building  with  a  wealth  of  spindling  pillars. 

"The  Woman's  Club,"  announced  Mrs.  Gallop,  indicating 
that  he  was  expected  to  step  down.  "We  have  only  time 
for  a  short  programme  before  luncheon." 

He  could  see  that  their  attendant  train  of  automobiles 
had  also  stopped.  Pedestrians  were  packed  in  front  of  the 
Colonial  columns  and  surging,  a  dense  mass,  across  the 


224  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

street.  One  of  the  dandified  new  traffic  policemen,  of 
which  Harnessville  was  justly  proud,  semaphored  a  white- 
gloved  hand  as  he  roared  the  fog-horn  signal,  familiar  to 
Fifth  Avenue  parades: 

"Come  on,  now !    Let  'em  through !" 

The  next  two  hours  was  all  a  blur  to  Admah  Hoag.  It 
was  called  an  Art  Luncheon,  he  remembered  vaguely;  a 
detailed  report  was  printed  later  in  the  Evening  Courier. 
He  had  a  faint  impression  of  being  deluged  in  Saint-Saens 
and  de  Bussy  from  those  accorded  viols  which  Mr.  Klein- 
metz  had  so  inscrutably  fled.  His  right  hand  became  quite 
numb  from  continual  grasps  of  welcome.  Some  one  told 
him  that  Harnessville  had  grown  miraculously  in  the  last 
three  years.  He  was  sure  of  this,  because  their  illimitable 
army  passed  in  review  before  his  eyes. 

The  art-life  of  Harnessville  was,  to  his  imagining,  what 
the  Russian  Revolution  would  be  like  if  conducted  entirely 
by  ladies.  Everything  was  run  on  the  committee  plan.  He 
was  passed  nimbly  from  committee  to  committee;  and  at 
last  he  was  seated  at  the  table  of  honour,  devoted  exclu 
sively  to  chairladies  of  all  the  committees.  Twenty-two 
plates  were  laid  at  that  table.  Oysters  were  no  sooner 
served  than  they  ceased  playing  and  singing  at  him  and 
began  talking  at  him.  Mr.  Dulcimer  came  in  very  early 
with  his  remarks,  his  theme  being,  Carrying  the  Torch  into 
the  Wilderness.  Several  chairladies  spoke  at  length.  Mrs. 
Modderson,  articulating  very  dis-tinct-ly,  read  an  original 
poem  entitled  "Beauty  Lives  for  Beauty."  With  tragic  art 
everything  moved  inevitably  toward  the  final  catastrophe. 

"You  will  be  called  on  for  a  few  remarks,"  said  Mrs. 
Gallop  at  last  in  a  voice  which  would  brook  no  denial. 

"Christians  torturing  the  lion,"  said  a  little,  giggly  voice 
directly  behind  him.  Mrs.  Gallop  turned  a  blighting  frown 
and  Hoag,  also  turning,  saw  the  pretty  red-headed  girl, 
seated  a  short  space  away  and  looking  with  some  embarrass 
ment  into  the  eyes  of  the  disapproving  Chairlady  of  Chair- 
ladies.  How  he  wished  that  this  vision  of  naturalness  and 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  225 

youth  and  humour  would  work  some  magic  now  by  which 
he  could  take  her  slender  hand  and  fade  from  sight ! 

Distantly  he  could  hear  Mrs.  Gallop's  sonorous  notes 
echoing  to  his  doom.  "Seldom  has  it  been  our  honour  .  .  . 
we  have  in  our  midst  to-day  ...  a  few  words  from  Amer 
ica's  Torch  of  Beauty,  Mr.  Admah  Hoag." 

Apparently  it  had  arrived.  Doom  sat  upon  his  plate  and 
bade  him  rise.  Admah  Hoag  choked  upon  a  mouthful  of 
coffee,  buried  his  face  in  his  napkin  and  stumbled  to  his 
miserable  feet.  He  scarcely  remembered  what  he  said  at 
first,  save  that  he  said  it  splutteringly,  inanely.  Like  the 
coward  that  he  was  he  resorted  to  his  time-worn  formula, 
complaining  that  he  had  a  bad  cold — which  he  had — and 
this  would  prevent  his  speaking  at  length.  He  had  a  sick 
ening  feeling  that  every  ear  in  the  room  was  centred  on  his 
pallid  lips.  The  silence  was  terrible.  And  in  the  midst  of 
all  this  he  suddenly  found  himself  heating  to  a  panicky  rage 
on  the  strength  of  which  he  snorted, 

"Confound  it,  ladies,  you've  got  a  beautiful  town,  if  you'll 
let  it  alone.  But  you're  getting  all  the  Eastern  vices.  Why 
don't  you  let  the  West  stay  West  ?  You  can't  improve  the 
sunset  by  trimming  it  with  cretonne.  I'm  really  very  much 
flattered  and  honoured  and — and  .  .  ." 

He  sat  down  heavily,  leaving  some  mysterious  adjective 
trailing  in  air.  He  was  horribly  ashamed  of  his  discourtesy 
and  afraid  of  the  momentary  hush  which  greeted  his  sudden 
vanishment  from  the  floor.  Then  Harnessville  saved  him 
by  an  act  of  unequalled  chivalry.  Some  one  applauded. 
Yet  others  took  up  the  noise  and  in  an  instant  the  Woman's 
Club  was  ringing  with  salvo  after  salvo.  The  thoughtful 
courtesy  of  the  thing  moved  this  overstrung  stranger  almost 
to  tears.  Instinctively  he  looked  round  to  see  how  the  red 
headed  girl  was  taking  it.  She  was  gone. 

After  luncheon  another  committee  came  round  to  drive 
him  over  to  the  Auditorium.  There  was  another  progress 
through  the  streets,  this  time  heading  some  distance  out  of 
town  into  a  well-set  wintry  park  in  the  midst  of  which  stood 


226  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

a  dignified  structure,  still  littered  round  with  the  rubbish  of 
building.  At  first  sight  of  the  Auditorium  Admah  Hoag 
began  to  crawl  out  of  the  coma  into  which  he  had  merged 
himself  for  protection.  It  was  a  fine,  big  simple  thing 
which  had  been  planned  by  a  young  architect  who  had  died 
before  its  completion.  Subsequent  botchwork  had  not  suc 
ceeded  in  spoiling  the  exterior,  and  the  interior  was  essen 
tially  too  dignified  to  be  ruined  by  the  decorative  scheme 
which  Carlo  Dulcimer  displayed  in  her  ever-ready  drawings. 

Admah  Hoag  stood  oblivious  now  of  his  keepers,  directed 
his  imaginative  gaze  into  the  deep-hooded  space  over  the 
proscenium. 

"Don't  you  thrill  for  brush  and  palette?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Modderson's  carefully  groomed  voice  in  his  ear. 

"Awful  lot  of  space  to  cover,"  replied  Admah  in  a  sign- 
painter's  voice  as  he  came  out  of  his  trance. 

He  quickly  relapsed,  however.  He  had  not  met  and 
talked  to  so  many  strangers  since  the  abominable  night  when 
they  had  centre-staged  him  and  unveiled  his  Elektra  at  the 
Pan-Hellenic  Building.  In  a  vapour  he  could  see  Mrs. 
Gallop  extending  a  glove,  and  he  could  hear  her  saying 
something  about  dinner  at  seven  thirty. 

"I'm  so  sorry — I  haven't  brought  any  evening  clothes," 
he  informed  her  in  a  voice  that  thrilled  with  hope. 

"Don't  give  it  a  second  thought,  then,"  she  told  him. 
"Come  just  as  you  are.  We'll  make  it  informal."  Admah 
had  heard  this  sort  of  thing  before.  It  was  just  the  same 
as  announcing  that  every  one  but  him  would  come  panoplied 
for  the  evening. 

However  he  breathed  fresh  air  at  once,  for  he  saw  a 
prospect  of  two  good  hours  by  himself.  Two  good  hours  in 
which  to  think  up  unpuncturable  reasons  why  he  should  not 
decorate  the  Auditorium  at  Harnessville.  He  was  smiling 
vapidly  and  bowing  committee  after  committee  out  of  his 
presence  when  a  lanky  arm  was  linked  through  his  and  a 
pallid  face  smiled  up  at  him  appeasingly.  It  was  Mr. 
Dulcimer. 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  227 

"They  have  turned  you  over  to  me,"  he  said  fawningly. 
"It  will  give  us  a  chance  for  a  little  chat  about — our  sub 
jects." 

They  had  reached  the  front  steps  of  the  structure  before 
Admah  had  worked  out  his  plan. 

"I've  dropped  some  notes,"  he  said  with  fairly  simulated 
confusion.  "You  wait  here — I  know  where  they  are." 

"Oh,  let  me— 

"Stay  here !"  commanded  Admah  Hoag  in  a  voice  which 
would  brook  no  disobedience.  Dulcimer  stayed. 

Admah  slunk  hastily  through  the  darkening  vault  of  the 
Auditorium.  He  remembered  a  little  stage  door  which,  as 
he  had  noted  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  must  lead  some 
where  out  back — to  escape  and  freedom.  He  groped  to 
the  door,  pushed  it  open,  stumbled  down  a  flight  of  stairs, 
barked  his  shins  over  a  kalsomine  keg  and,  following  a 
small  gleam  of  light  through  the  dimness,  came  at  last  to 
an  open  window.  It  wasn't  a  hard  climb  and  Admah  was 
desperate.  He  dropped  softly  to  the  ground  outside  and 
found  himself  plunging  down  an  irregular  incline  and  into 
a  wintry  woodland  through  which  the  sunset  shone  splen 
diferous. 

"Decided  to  run,  did  you?" 

A  light  green  coat  with  fur  around  the  collar  and  some 
thing  to  match  in  the  hat  first  struck  his  eye.  Then  he  saw 
a  hank  of  reddish  hair  and  a  generous  mouth  which,  at  that 
moment,  was  laughing  at  him. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  responded  lamely.  "Just  wanted  a  little 
fresh  air  and " 

"You  needn't  be  ashamed.  I  ran  away  myself,"  she  told 
him  soberly.  "But  of  course  I  had  a  snap.  There  were 
only  one  or  two  watching  me." 

"I  just  wanted  a  chance  to  think  and  be  alone " 

"I'm  not  going  to  bother  you,  poor  dear.  If  you'll  follow 
this  path  to  the  big  willow,  then  cut  in  toward  the  river, 
you'll  find  such  a  tangle  that  they  never  can  find  you, 
Who's  after  you  now?" 


228  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

r""**~*'~~^~—^~*~'~'         ~^ »——•—•.         — i^— — —— — ^ 

"Mr.  Zither— Mr.  Mandolin " 

"Oh!  Mr.  Dulcimer!  Well,  he's  too  feeble  to  follow 
you  far.  But  I  understand  your  feelings.  Only  don't  stay 
out  all  night.  It  turns  bitter  cold  after  ten  o'clock.  And 
then,  I  suppose  you've  got  to  be  at  the  dinner  party?" 

"I'm  beginning  to  take  interest,"  he  confessed  with  un 
usual  boldness.  "You'll  be  there?" 

"Oh,  no.    I've  been  especially  invited  not  to  come." 

"Well  then.     That  settles  the  affair  for  me." 

"Do  as  you  please,  Mr.  Hoag." 

She  turned  away  and  started  up  the  path. 

"But,  I  say,   Miss— 

"You've  come  here,  you  know,  of  your  own  free  will," 
she  faced  him  hotly.  "You've  been  here  a  few  hours  and 
done  your  best  to  insult  the  whole  town — my  town.  They've 
done  all  they  knew  how  to  make  things  pleasant  for  you, 
they're  offering  you  money  on  a  hot  platter.  And  you're 
taking  it  like  the  spoiled  darling  you  are." 

He  stood  there  wide-eyed  regarding  the  lithe,  heroic 
figure  that  loomed  there  out  of  the  sunset,  holding  him  to 
account  for  his  shortcomings. 

"I  never  intended — I " 

"The  town  will  be  much  better  off  without  your  old  mural 
decorations.  We  were  a  happy,  natural  lot  of  people  until 
this  art-thing  got  hold  of  us.  First  came  Mr.  Ducimer  to 
tie  everything  up  in  chintz,  and  now  you're  going  to  be 
wished  on  us " 

"You're  wrong  there,  little  wolf,"  he  smiled  grimly,  stung 
by  the  thought  of  associating  with  Mr.  Dulcimer. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  with  sudden  contrition.  "But 
when  you  go  to  the  party  to-night,  please  try  to  behave." 

"I'll  go  and  I'll  try." 

"Thank  you.  Maybe  it  will  be  good  for  you  to  be  bored 
stiff  for  twenty-four  hours.  I  sometimes  think  that  if  all 
the  egotists  in  the  world  would  take  that  treatment — you 
know — just  standing  on  one  leg  and  letting  all  the  bromides 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  229 

talk  them  blind — say  once  a  year — it  would  do  them  a 
world  of  good." 

"I  wish  you'd  reconsider  that  invitation."  She  clasped 
his  hand  boyishly  and  looked  straight  into  his  eyes. 

"Can't  be  done.     Good  night." 

She  had  taken  three  steps  away  from  the  sunset  back 
ground  when  he  called  after  her, 

"I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  I'm  always  like  this " 

She  stopped  and  turned,  her  hair  glowing  like  the  red  in 
the  West,  her  eyes  serious,  her  face  milk-white  and  rather 
tragic. 

" — I  came  here  in  a  rotten  funk  and  I  thought  I'd  have 
a  few  quiet  hours  to  talk  over  the  Auditorium.  I  don't 
know  why  I  stood  there  saying  those  curious  things.  You 
know,  I  can't  speak  and  receptions  scare  me  blue.  There 
wasn't  a  word  of  truth  in  what  I  said — 

"That's  what  makes  me  mad,"  she  replied  coolly.  "Every 
word  you  said  was  so  true  it  makes  me  furious  to  think 
that  an — Easterner "  She  gave  this  last  word  the  in 
flection  she  might  have  given  "mulatto" — "has  to  come  here 
and  tell  us  things  we  haven't  got  pep  enough  to  tell  our 
selves." 

VI 

Admah  did  as  the  spirit  of  the  wood  had  advised.  He 
followed  the  path  as  far  as  the  big  willow  and  turned  in 
toward  the  river.  His  lungs  expanded  with  the  sharp  air 
of  a  prairie  winter  as  he  floundered  blissfully  among  the 
bare  shrubs  and  little  icy  hollows.  Occasionally  he  would 
stop  and  let  his  artist's  eye  indulge  itself  in  its  passion  for 
form  and  colour.  Like  Whistler  he  hated  sunsets,  detesting 
the  bombast  of  Nature's  obvious  mood.  Yet  to-night  there 
came  a  savage  delight  in  glimpses  of  the  West,  which  was 
mystery  to  him ;  there  was  an  Indian  rhapsody  out  there 
where  the  Rocky  Mountains  must  be  looming.  Somewhere 
in  the  rear  a  church  bell  tolled  as  placidly  as  in  a  Kentish 
shire.  A  locomotive  tooted  and,  nearer  yet,  an  automobile 


230  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

honked.    After  all  there  was  no  getting  away  from  it.   ... 

Toward  dusk  he  stole  through  the  residential  streets  oi' 
Harnessville,  dreading  Dulcimer  at  every  corner.  Behind 
this  town's  quixotic  call  for  Art  the  artist  scented  Dulcimer 
like  a  cheap  perfume.  Harnessville  would  never  have 
thought  of  Hoag  without  Dulcimer's  instigation.  But  why 
had  the  decorator,  who  surely  had  no  more  use  for  Hoag 
than  Hoag  for  him,  taken  pains  to  introduce  the  mural 
decorator  to  the  West?  Undoubtedly  Carlo  saw  a  substan 
tial  advertisement  for  himself  in  his  alleged  friendship  with 
the  genius.  No  doubt  that  was  it.  So  here  he  was  adapting 
his  New  York  technique  to  a  smaller  scale,  making  love  to 
the  richest  girl  in  town  and  turning  home  into  an  expensive 
dungeon,  no  doubt,  for  the  richest  girl's  mother. 

As  the  artist  walked  he  noted  that  there  were  plenty  of 
comfortable  houses  with  space  around  them.  The  streets 
were  clean  and  the  same  delicious,  inspiring  air  came  blow 
ing  to  him  from  the  prairie.  The  sunset  was  dying  in  the 
West — how  the  wastrel  hair  of  that  saucy,  heroic  girl  by 
the  birch  tree  had  caught  the  glow !  She  was  right.  He  had 
been  rude  and  patronising  at  the  Art  Luncheon  and  he  was 
sorry  he  had  struck  out  so  blindly  against  his  oppressors. 
Shy  and  egoistic  as  an  artist  can  be,  Admah  Hoag  had  a 
heart  that  was  soft  as  a  sponge.  He  remembered  the  girl 
with  a  pleasant  shame,  blazing  out  at  his  Eastern  snobbish 
ness  like  her  own  Western  sky.  Well,  he  would  try  and 
behave  himself.  If  only  he  could  get  away  without  murder 
ing  Carlo! 

It  was  a  quarter  past  seven  when  he  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  he  was  then  standing  by  a  vacant  lot  past  which  a 
suburban  trolley  crashed  at  lonesome  intervals.  Presently 
the  universal  suburbanite,  laden  with  parcels,  joined  him 
at  the  corner,  and  of  him  Admah  made  inquiries  as  to  the 
whereabouts  of  the  Gallop  house. 

"Nine  blocks  to  your  left  to  the  Boulevard,"  said  the 
stranger  without  hesitation,  "then  turn  to  your  right  and 
you'll  come  to  Washington  Street.  It's  the  big  red  place 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  231 

^••^^*^^^^^^^^^^^^^^— -^"—"—- *^^^~ ~ ~~ ^~*~ ~"~~         ^^~^~ i^^**~ ^^^~ *~~ ^ 

with  the  round  towers  in  front.  You  can't  miss  it.  Known 
in  town?" 

"In  a  way,"  replied  Admah,  making  a  rapid  escape  in 
the  direction  indicated. 

His  guide  had  spoken  truthfully.  Admah  couldn't  miss 
the  Gallop  house.  He  recognised  many  of  the  automobiles 
which  had  followed  him  that  morning,  now  parked  com 
fortably  along  the  curb  in  front  of  the  red  towers.  Weak 
fear  again  seized  him  as  he  pressed  the  button  of  the 
electric  bell.  Distantly  under  the  street  lamp  he  could  see 
groups  of  people  approaching  afoot.  The  door  opened  and 
admitted  him  into  the  dim  splendours  of  the  re-decorated 
Gallop  parlour.  In  a  glance  he  took  in  the  putty-coloured 
walls,  the  Japanese  prints,  the  high-shouldered  furniture. 
There  was  something  disagreeably  reminiscent  about  it 
all  ...  the  Fifth  Avenue  residence  of  Mrs.  Ballymoore, 
to  avoid  whom  he  had  fled  away  to  the  wilds.  Out  of  the 
dimness  he  saw  the  figure  of  Mrs.  Gallop  swimming  to 
ward  him.  .  .  . 

All  around  him,  chatting  in  groups,  he  could  see  the 
broad  white  fronts  and  long  black  tails  of  complete  evening 
attire.  Shaking  hands  feebly,  Admah  stood  in  his  wrinkled 
grey  travelling  tweeds — a  figure  of  the  rough  uncouth  East, 
alone,  and  uncomfortable  in  the  dress-suited  presence  of 
the  varnished  West ! 

The  dinner  was  an  enormous  one  in  number  of  plates, 
and  in  quality  excellent.  Fortified  by  his  chivalrous  vow  to 
try  and  behave  himself,  Admah  was  amazed  to  find  himself 
appropriating  the  conversation,  even  telling  a  few  anecdotes, 
tittering  appreciatively,  if  vacuously,  at  even  the  mildest 
utterance.  The  champagne,  of  which  there  seemed  to  be 
a  generous  supply,  helped  a  great  deal.  Through  it  all 
Mrs.  Gallop  was  a  bit  trying,  because  she  invariably  shunted 
the  conversation  round  to  a  vein  she  called  "serious"  every 
time  the  guest  of  honour  began  really  enjoying  himself. 
For  all  the  world  like  Mrs.  Ballymoore.  Mrs.  Modderson, 


232  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

too,  was  ghastly ;  and  Admah  was  seated  between  this  good 
lady  and  his  hostess.  But  across  the  table  he  caught  the 
glint  of  fellowship  in  the  roving  eye  of  Americus  Gallop. 
On  the  wind  of  an  occasional  pithy,  blunt  remark  Admah 
suspected  that  Americus  was  an  old  Philistine.  He  adored 
a  consistent  Philistine,  just  as  he  admired  any  of  the 
genuine  works  of  God. 

Mrs.  Modderson,  it  was  obvious,  had  been  reading  up  for 
the  occasion  from  a  complete  set  entitled  "Great  Masters" 
with  coloured  lithographs.  She  strangled  him  with  biograph 
ical  data,  passing  heavily  from  Fra  Filippo  Lippi  to  Tinto 
retto,  from  Tintoretto  to  Memlinc  and  Boucher.  All  the 
world's  art-periods  were  scrambled  in  her  mind  into  one 
cultured  mess.  There  was  no  gainsaying  her  opinions,  for 
she  had  stocked  her  little  brain  with  the  verdicts  of  eminent 
experts.  She  uttered  vast  bromidioms  with  the  air  of  de 
lightful  discovery  to  which  there  was  no  answer  save  an 
agreeable  smile.  In  spite  of  his  resolution  to  remain  polite, 
Admah  discovered  in  himself  a  tendency  to  doze;  he  had 
had  a  trying  journey  on  the  train,  and  he  never  slept  well  in 
a  Pullman.  The  wine  was  dying  in  his  veins.  His  head 
was  beginning  to  ache. 

The  diners  had  scarcely  adjourned  to  the  big  living- 
room  and  the  extra  tables  whisked  away  by  an  army  of 
assistants  when  the  door  bell  started  a  brisk  jangling.  More 
citizens  were  arriving — arriving  in  droves !  The  horrid 
truth  now  dawned  upon  the  sore-tried  stranger.  They  were 
going  to  give  him  another  reception. 

"The  town  ain't  always  like  this,"  Mr.  Gallop  got  a  chance 
to  assure  him  in  the  moment  they  were  thrown  together  in 
a  corner. 

"It's  really  quite  a  beautiful  little  city,"  Admah  came  out 
promptly  with  his  compliment,  which  was  sincere. 

"Towns  are  like  children,"  said  the  flour  merchant,  offer 
ing  an  excellent  cigar.  "Let  'em  alone  pretty  much  and 
they  grow  up  in  their  own  way.  But  the  trouble  with  'em, 
is  that  people  won't  let  'em  alone.  Just  about  the  time 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  233 

they're  beginning  to  develop  some,  along  comes  a  lot  of 
women,  determined  to  tie  'em  up  in  ribbons  and  teach  'em 
the  broad  a.  It's  like " 

Mr.  Gallop  paused  for  a  simile. 

"Like  putting  a  frilled  collar  on  baby  Hercules,"  sup 
plied  Admah. 

"For  an  artist  you  do  talk  a  lot  like  a  male,"  said  Ameri- 
cus,  throwing  away  his  cigar  and  disappearing  in  the  direc 
tion  of  his  wife's  beckoning  finger. 

There  was  now  a  great  hurrying  back  and  forth,  an  as 
sembling  of  chairs  in  the  big  hall  between  the  putty-coloured 
walls.  Admah  now  again  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Dul 
cimer,  to  whom  he  made  feeble  excuses  for  his  escape  of 
the  afternoon.  The  lion  of  the  occasion  found  himself 
surrounded  and  his  hand  going  forth  to  greet  a  hundred  and 
fifty  new  clasps  of  welcome.  In  the  faces  of  the  Harness- 
villians  coming  toward  him  in  a  long  line,  he  saw  that 
same  vapid,  smirking,  inhuman  expression  which  had  har 
rowed  his  soul  on  that  frightful  evening  when  they  had 
stood  him  up  at  the  Pan-Hellenic  Building  and  directed  half 
New  York  toward  his  place  of  honour.  Presently  that,  too, 
was  over  and  the  guests  began  seating  themselves  in  the 
tiers  of  chairs.  Admah  backed  away  in  a  corner  beside 
Americus  Gallop.  From  this  little  natural  fat  man  he 
seemed  to  gather  strength  and  sympathy. 

A  table  and  a  chair  were  pushed  into  the  cleared  space  in 
front  of  the  bay-window.  With  that  parochial  pomp  which 
was  her  breath  of  life  Mrs.  Gallop  bustled  to  the  table  and 
knocked  twice  for  silence.  The  buzzing  waned  at  last  as 
wanes  the  humming  of  the  swarm  when  the  queen  bee  has 
settled  on  her  branch. 

"In  honour  of  the  distinguished  guest  who  has  graced 
our  community  with  his  presence  .  .  ." 

Admah  heard  the  rest  confusedly.  His  temples  were 
thumping.  There  was  a  heavy  feeling  at  the  pit  of  his 
stomach.  His  feet  were  cold.  He  was  sure  he  was  going 
to  have  one  of  his  sick  headaches.  Appealingly  he  laid 


234  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  little  man  who  sat  beside 
him  near  the  stairs.  Gathering  loose  ends  of  the  sentences 
which  touched  his  frazzled  nerves  in  fragments,  he  con 
cluded  that  Mrs.  Gallop  had  arranged  a  programme  in  his 
honour  and  that  it  was  to  be  loosed  upon  him  forthwith. 

"First  on  the  programme  Mrs.  Cadra  Modderson  will 
favour  us  with  Rudyard  Kipling's  immortal  ballad  'Gunga 
Dhin.' " 

Admah  Hoag  lay  back  heavily  in  his  chair.  Ten  years 
ago  he  had  made  the  vow  that  never  again  would  he  sit  in 
public  and  listen  to  a  recitation  of  "Gunga  Dhin."  Yet  a 
distinguished  actor  had  recited  it  at  him  in  his  Pan-Hellenic 
triumph,  yet  here  again  he  sat  in  a  position  where  to  escape 
would  be  an  atrocity.  He  had  given  his  promise  to  the  girl 
with  the  red  hair — and  Mrs.  Modderson  took  her  place  at  a 
spot  on  the  rug  where  every  syllable  would  be  dis-tinct-ly 
uttered.  Her  prominent  eyes  sought  him  out  in  his  obscure 
place  and  as  she  launched  vigorously  into  the  recitation  she 
seemed  popping  her  words  directly  into  his  tired  ear 
drums. 

"For  it's  Dhin !     Dhin !     DHIN ! ! !" 

Din,  din,  din — like  the  pounding  of  a  tin-pan  upon  nerves 
that  could  stand  no  more.  Mrs.  Modderson  took  an  enthusi 
astic  encore.  This  time  she  chose  "Boots"  by  the  same 
author.  Admah  knew  she  would.  People  who  recite 
"Gunga  Dhin"  always  give  "Boots"  as  an  encore.  At  last 
it  was  over.  Admah  found  himself  leaning  heavily  on  the 
shoulder  of  his  sympathetic  host. 

"Not  feeling  well  ?"  asked  Americus'  welcome  voice  in  his 
ear. 

"Sick  headache,  I  think,"  replied  Admah  drearily. 
"Those  Pullman  cars — haven't  slept  a  wink  for  two  nights." 

"Tell  you  what "  Mr.  Gallop  plucked  him  slyly  by  a 

sleeve,  arose  and  beckoned  him  toward  a  door  in  the  rear. 
Admah  followed  mechanically.  In  the  small  enclosure  be 
tween  the  butler's  pantry  and  the  dining-room  the  helpful 
gentleman  stopped  and  whispered  cautiously: 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  235 

"Winny'd  murder  me  if  she  knew.  But  I  understand  the 
limit.  Now  there's  a  little  room  away  upstairs  in  the  attic. 
Sneak  up  there  and  they  can't  find  you  with  a  pack  of 
bloodhounds.  Sofa  to  stretch  out  on — only  decent  place  in 
the  house." 

Already  his  guide  was  tiptoeing  ahead  of  him  up  half- 
darkened  passages,  the  haunts  of  serving  people. 

"I've  got  to  get  away  early  in  the  morning,"  Admah  was 
apologising  as  they  paused  aloft  amidst  a  litter  of  domestic 
rubbish.  "Perhaps  you'll  think  it  eccentric  of  me,  but  I 
must  have  a  little  peace  to  think  things  over.  Maybe  it 
would  be  better,  though,  for  me  to  answer  the  Committee 
by  mail " 

"That's  the  way  I  do,  too,  when  I  turn  down  an  order," 
smiled  Americus. 

"Well,"  grinned  the  painter,  "I've  about  made  up  my 
mind.  But  Mrs.  Gallop  has  been  so  kind  and " 

"You  think  it  would  be  gentler  to  ease  it  to  her  con 
fidentially  ?" 

"Well,  if  you  think "    Again  an  irresolute  pause. 

"Tell  you  what  you  do." 

Americus  had  now  switched  on  an  electric  light  and  was 
pointing  across  a  space  of  garret  toward  a  small  white  door 
at  the  end. 

"You  just  sneak  in  there  and  stretch  out.  The  light's 
on — I've  been  reading.  It's  a  hell  of  a  room,  but  com 
fortable." 

"I  understand,"  sighed  Admah,  a  world  of  gratitude  in 
his  tone. 

"And  I'd  better  run  back  before  Winny  gets  on.  Stay 
there  as  long  as  you  like,  and  I'll  fetch  you  down  after  the 
party's  over." 

He  turned  and  began  clambering  down  the  narrow  stairs. 
With  the  feeling  of  a  criminal  who  finds  himself  unex 
pectedly  torn  from  a  mob  and  locked  away  in  a  cosy  prison, 
the  refugee  advanced  and  opened  the  little  white  door  at 
the  end. 


236  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

The  first  object  to  catch  his  eye  was  a  tall  brass  reading 
lamp  with  a  green  glass  shade.  There  was  a  comfortable 
cluster  of  old-fashioned  chairs  and  glimpses  of  steel  engrav 
ings  on  the  wall.  The  sight  gave  him  the  sensation  of 
blessed  release  which  the  homely  room  of  the  East  River 
tug-boat  captain  had  always  brought.  He  eased  the  door 
a  crack  wider  and  sensed  the  start  which  the  human  animal 
always  enjoys  when  coming  unexpectedly  upon  another 
human  animal. 

For  settled  in  the  vivid  green  plush  of  a  Morris  chair, 
directly  under  the  green  light,  slouched  a  tall,  slender  girl, 
a  hank  of  red  hair  braided  down  her  back  as  she  leaned 
intently  over  a  large  portfolio  into  which  she  was  sketching 
industriously  writh  a  sharp  pencil.  The  one  detail  which  he 
caught  in  that  surprising  encounter  was  that  her  quickly 
sensitive  fingers  were  smudged  to  the  knuckles  from  the 
pencils  she  had  been  sharpening. 

"Ah— hum !" 

This,  I  think,  is  the  correct  introduction  under  such  cir 
cumstances.  The  vision  leapt  as  to  the  call  of  fire.  Her 
portfolio  went  one  way,  her  sheaf  of  pencils  the  other. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  further  volunteered,  admiring  her  as  she 
stood  there,  her  pencil-smudged  fingers  drawn  to  her  breast, 
her  face  as  pallid  as  the  moon,  her  clear,  wonderful  eyes 
fixed  wide  upon  him. 

"Running  away  again?"  she  asked  suddenly  with  a 
nervous  little  laugh. 

"Well,  if  you'll  forgive  me — it  wasn't  my  fault  this  time. 
An  elocutionist  insisted  on  reciting  'Gunga  Dhin'  and  your 
father " 

"Dear  old  Daddy !"  She  was  smiling  quite  naturally  now. 
"I  think  he's  got  more  sense  than  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
put  together.  So  he  showed  you  to  our  room." 

"I  didn't  intend  to  intrude.  He  assured  me  there 
wouldn't  be  a  soul  here  and  that  I  could  lie  down  and 
enjoy  my  headache  in  peace." 

"And  mother?" 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  237 

"Oh,  she's  presiding.  I  don't  think  she  knows  I've 
gone." 

"Well.     I'll  go  and  let  you  rest." 

"For  heaven's  sake — please  don't!"  He  was  agonised 
by  the  fear  that  the  spirit  of  the  forest  would  again  escape 
him,  leaving  him  to  gnaw  the  sweet  morsel  of  an  unfinished 
interview. 

"It  isn't  good  for  a  man  with  a  headache  to  be  talking," 
she  protested ;  but  to  his  relief  she  made  no  further  move 
to  depart. 

"There's  a  sort  of  talk  that  soothes,"  he  pointed  out. 

"I'm  afraid  that  isn't  my  kind."  She  resumed  her  place 
in  the  Morris  chair,  which  seemed  a  signal  for  him  to  make 
himself  comfortable  on  the  broad  old-fashioned  sofa.  She 
studied  him  very  frankly  with  eyes  which  he  had  thought 
grey,  but  which  had  deepened  to  a  rich  violet.  Admah 
Hoag  had  enjoyed  looking  into  eyes  of  a  great  variety.  The 
Ballymoore  girl's  eyes  had  been  bright  and  spirited,  but 
they  had  gleamed  cold  like  a  wintry  tide.  There  had  been 
two  or  three  models  with  eyes  of  brown  and  snappy  black ; 
eyes  into  which  you  could  paint  the  enchantment  which 
was  not  there  in  real  life. 

"Did  you  behave  at  the  party?"  she  drawled  at  last,  still 
contemplating  him  at  close  range. 

"Do  you  know,  I  really  enjoyed  a  part  of  it,"  he  con 
fessed.  "Until  they  began  reciting  at  me — 

"Mrs.  Modderson — yes.     She's  part  of  the  Blight." 

"The  what?" 

"That's  what  Daddy  and  I  call  it— the  Blight.  Mrs. 
Modderson's  part  of  it  and  Mr.  Dulcimer — oh,  he's  a  per 
fect  bag  of  boll  weevils." 

"And  I  suppose  that  I " 

"Yes.  You're  the  latest  phase.  I'm  not  sure  that  you're 
not  more  deadly  than  any  of  them,  because  you're  more 
expensive." 

Admah  Hoag  took  this  with  a  good  natured  smile,  but 


238  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^l^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^p^^^^^^ 

there  must  have  been  some  sensitive  betrayal  in  his  look, 
for  she  hastened  on  : 

"There !  I'm  talking  like  an  impertinent  little  dog  again. 
You  know  I'm  ever  so  much  cut  up  about  the  way  I  treated 
you  this  afternoon  in  Willow  Park." 

"My  dear  Miss  Gallop — that's  what  you  are,  aren't  you  ?" 
"One  of  'em,"  she  admitted.    "The  one  who  doesn't  pat 
ronise  the  arts." 

"No.  I  should  say  not.  You  pulverise  them  rather." 
"Well,  I  had  no  right  treating  a  stranger  the  way  I  did 
you.  But  it  got  on  my  nerves  horribly.  You  see  Mrs. 
Modderson  has  been  lecturing  us  on  our  crudity  for  three 
years,  then  along  came  Dulcimer.  Then  along  came  you. 
I  don't  suppose  you  realise  how  a  person  out  here  can  love 
his  town  and  be  proud  of  it  and  sensitive  about  it,  just  the 
way  New  Yorkers  are  proud  of  the  way  they're  always 
tearing  their  beloved  city  to  ribbons  and  never  finishing  it. 
Daddy  and  I  have  loved  to  see  Harnessville  boom  and 
double  in  size  every  two  years,  but  we  wanted  it  to  grow 
up  to  be — Harnessville.  Then  along  comes  Art." 

"Art  is  going  back  on  the  morning  train,"  Admah  assured 
her,  not  without  a  pang. 

"Of  course  that  would  break  Mother's  heart." 
"But,  Miss  Gallop — what  do  you  suggest  my  doing?" 
"You'd  better  lie  down,  if  you  have  a  headache."     She 
patted  a  soft  pillow  at  the  head  of  the  couch  and  Admah 
found  himself  stretching  out  in  infinite  comfort. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "I  have  a  room  above  my  studio 
that's  so  much  like  this  you  could  put  'em  together  and 
call  'em  twins." 

"You're  not  telling  me  this  seriously?"  She  was  gather 
ing  scattered  leaves  from  the  floor  and  looked  luminously 
up  at  him. 

"I  hate  to  sit  in  a  cave  with  greenish-grey  walls  and  one 
rush-light  dimly  shining.  We've  been  spending  several 
thousand  years  getting  away  from  the  troglodytes,  and  I 
see  no  reason  why  we  should  be  getting  back  to  them " 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  239 

"Gee !"  she  exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  such  perfect  rapture 
that  he  was  thrilled  sub  immo  pectore. 

"I  think  you  must  be  something  of  a  hypocrite,"  he  ac 
cused  at  last. 

"That's  a  new  one  for  me,"  she  acknowledged,  glancing 
at  him  over  her  portfolio. 

"Else  why  should  you  be  abusing  art  when,  as  I  can  see, 
you've  been  busy  as  a  bee  sketching  all  manner  of  things  ?" 

Impulsively  he  reached  out  and  picked  up  the  sheet  which 
lay  face  down  beside  his  couch. 

"Oh,  please  don't— I- 

But  the  damage  was  done.  Admah  got  it  almost  before 
he  had  lifted  the  page.  Sketched  forcibly  and  with  a  few 
good  lines  upon  the  page  was  a  strikingly  lifelike  and  un 
flattering  portrait  of  himself.  As  represented  in  the  picture 
he  was  standing  at  a  banquet  table,  the  same  being  laden 
with  laurel  wreaths  and  loving-cups,  and  as  the  caricatured 
Admah  struggled  against  his  appalling  doom  a  replica  of 
Mrs.  Gallop  held  him  firmly  by  the  throat  while  a  replica 
of  Mrs.  Modderson  forced  a  crown  of  roses  upon  the 
victim's  brow.  In  a  round  scrawl  the  page  was  labelled 
"Art  Triumphant." 

He  glanced  swiftly  from  lampoon  to  lampoonist.  She 
was  red  as  a  rose  and  her  eyes  were  bright  with  tears  of 
shame.  Again  he  surveyed  the  picture  and  gave  vent  to 
such  a  roar  as  shook  the  rafters  against  the  sloping  roof. 

"My  Lord!"  he  bellowed,  "it's  colossal!  It's  an  epic — 
it's " 

"I  didn't  tell  you  you  could  do  that,"  she  informed  him 
coldly. 

"Oh,  but  if  the  rest  are  like  this — Miss  Gallop,  you've 
got  to  show  me  the  rest." 

"I  haven't  got  to  do  anything,"  she  made  her  character 
istic  rejoinder  as  she  gathered  up  the  bundle  and  held  it 
close.  He  found  himself  standing  over  her  in  an  attitude 
which,  to  the  superficial  observer,  would  have  looked  men 
acing. 


240  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"If  I  tell  you  that  drawing  is  superb,  that  it's  got  a  knock 
to  it  like  the  hammer  of  Thor,  that  it  expresses  every 
thing  I've  felt  to-day  and  then  some " 

She  sat  there  shaking  her  head,  her  hands  crossed  upon 
the  sheaf  of  papers  upon  her  breast. 

"But  I've  got  a  sort  of  right  to  see  them.  They  represent 
what  I'm  up  against — and  they're  so  darned  funny !" 

"How  do  you  know  they're  funny?" 

"Well,  the  fellow  who  did  that  one  I  saw  couldn't  help 
himself." 

"Well,  then,"  she  said  and,  coming  over  to  the  Victorian 
sofa,  began  spreading  her  exhibition.  Now  Admah  Hoag 
was  a  hearty  young  man  whose  hates  and  loves  ran  red 
under  a  ruddy  skin.  When  he  laughed  it  was  a  vigorous 
noise  like  the  quality  which  had  endowed  his  famous 
Elektra.  And  he  was  at  it  again  in  an  instant. 

"This,"  said  she,  "is  Mr.  Dulcimer  Putting  Chintz  on 
the  City  Hall." 

The  lily-like  youth  was  shown  draping  the  dome  of 
Harnessville's  most  pompous  edifice.  The  statue  of  Justice 
was  falling  off  the  roof  while  a  marble  Venus  de  Milo  was 
being  hoisted  on  a  crane. 

"Mr.  Dulcimer  Having  an  Ecstasy,"  she  further  expostu 
lated,  showing  a  retouched  version  of  Harnessville's  elite 
adoring  the  Crowned  One. 

When  satire  had  followed  insult  and  she  had  come  at 
last  to  "Father's  Hour  of  Ease,"  revealing  Mr.  Gallop  try 
ing  to  read  in  the  new  throne  chair,  the  voice  of  the  dis 
tinguished  guest  had  thickened  to  a  wheeze,  but  he  still 
begged  for  more. 

"I  didn't  intend  that  Mother  should  see  them,"  she  was 
telling  him,  "but  of  course  Amelia  got  sensitive — said  they 
weren't  respectful  to  Carlo.  Mother  got  her  first  peep  at 
them  this  morning  just  before  she  left  to  meet  you  at  the 
train.  That's  why  I'm  not  at  the  party  to-night." 

"If  the  Committee  had  met  the  train  with  these  draw- 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  241 

ings,"  said  Admah  Hoag  at  last,  "it  would  have  been  a 
lot  pleasanter  day  for  all  of  us." 

The  programme  was  over  and  the  audience  ready  to  de 
part  when  Mrs.  Gallop,  satisfied  that  the  Committee  had 
done  itself  proud,  surrendered  the  chair  and  became,  for  the 
first  time,  aware  that  he  for  whom  so  much  brilliancy  had 
been  let  loose  had  disappeared.  She  knew  that  the  sheepish 
Americus  must  be  in  some  way  mixed  into  the  crime,  so  she 
took  him  to  task. 

"He's  sick,"  whispered  the  consort,  "so  I  put  him  away." 

"Away  ?    Did  you  take  him  to  the  violet  room  ?" 

"No.  He  wanted  to  think.  I  showed  him  the  little  room 
in  the  garret.  He's  all  right,  he " 

"Are  you  mad?" 

"Now,  Winny — he  said  he  wanted " 

"Bring  him  down  at  once.  Can't  you  see  they're  all  going 
home?" 

Americus  viewed  the  impending  exodus  without  betraying 
any  sign  of  grief.  He  could  hear  Winifred's  careful  accents 
explaining  away  the  celebrity's  sudden  indisposition  as  he 
took  the  rear  door  and  back  stairs  up  to  his  sanctuary.  He 
had  no  sooner  gained  the  third  landing  under  the  rafters 
than  volley  after  volley  of  ribald  laughter  came  echoing 
to  his  astonished  ears.  The  sufferer  was  either  cured  or 
beyond  hope,  he  reflected- as  he  knocked  at  the  little  white 
door. 

Downstairs  Mrs.  Gallop  at  last  gave  up  waiting.  She  was 
weak  with  fury  as  she  bade  a  remnant  of  the  Art  Commit 
tee  stay  and  hear,  if  possible,  the  artist's  verdict  on  the 
Auditorium.  Then  she,  too,  took  the  back  stairs  toward 
the  Rat's  Nest. 

The  astonishment  which  Americus  had  felt  upon  gaining, 
the  top  landing  was  magnified,  in  her  case,  a  thousand  times. 
The  very  ill  Mr.  Hoag's  rough  laughter  rushed  through  the 
place  like  a  boreal  blast  and  attuned  to  it  the  gurgling, 
chuckling  fat  man's  tee-hee  of  her  husband.    Did  she  hear 


242  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

America's  drawling  little  soprano  running  like  a  thread  of 
silver  through  the  symphony  ? 

She  knocked  timidly  at  the  white  door,  then,  losing 
patience,  thumped  it  with  the  heel  of  her  fist.  Finally  she 
turned  the  knob  and  walked  dramatically  into  the  bril 
liantly  lighted  den. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Hoag!  I  heard  you  were  ill  and  we  were  all 
worrying  about  you." 

'"I  have  these  nervous  attacks — really  nothing,"  he 
stammered,  at  once  abashed  out  of  his  boisterous  mood. 

"We're  all  so  sorry " 

"Oh,  but  I'm  much  better.  Your  daughter  has  been 
cheering  me  up  with  those  remarkable  drawings." 

"I  see."    There  was  just  one  cutting  glance  for  America. 

"The  Committee  on  Art  are  waiting,"  said  the  good  lady, 
regaining  her  poise.  "We  thought  perhaps  you  might  have 
come  to  some  decision  about  the  Auditorium." 

"Oh,  yes.  You  wouldn't  mind  delivering  my  message  to 
them,  would  you,  Mrs.  Gallop?  I'm  really  not  fit  to  talk 
much." 

"But,  Mr.  Hoag!"  Her  face  went  blank,  then  puckered 
pathetically.  "What  shall  I  tell  them?" 

"You  might  say,  if  you  would,"  he  informed  her  lightly, 
"that  I  shall  feel  honoured  to  do  those  mural  paintings." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Hoag!"  Her  face  lit  up  with  such  a  joy 
as  never  glowed  from  any  earthly  source.  "I'm  so  glad — 
I'm " 

"There  are  just  one  or  two  things  I  wanted  to  ask  in  the 
way  of  terms,"  he  went  on.  "In  the  first  place,  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars  isn't  satisfactory." 

"You  mean " 

"It's  exactly  twice  as  much  as  I'll  take." 

"Well,  swallow  my  head!"  said  Americus  Gallop  in  a 
prayerful  tone. 

"And  the  town  has  got  to  furnish  me  with  certain 
materials  I  must  have." 

"Anything.    Anything  in  our  power " 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  PALED  243 

"Could  I  use  your  daughter?" 

"I  don't  quite  understand " 

"I  have  just  worked  out  an  idea  to  be  entitled  'Indepen 
dence  of  Thought  Tearing  the  Veil  from  the  Eyes  of  Pre 
tence,'  and  I  should  very  much  like  your  daughter  to 
pose  as  the  central  figure — with  your  consent,  of  course." 

Nearly  an  hour  passed  before  Mrs.  Gallop,  enchantment 
overcoming  fatigue,  came  back  to  the  attic  retreat  and 
joined  the  group  on  the  family  sofa. 

"Of  course  you'll  stay  with  us,"  she  announced.  "Mr. 
Dulcimer  has  just  finished  the  violet  room  and  we'll  make 
you  comfortable  as  possible." 

Admah  Hoag  glanced  lovingly  around  the  small  space, 
took  in  the  rafters  and  the  reading  lamp  and  the  com 
fortable  Morris  chair. 

"Couldn't  you  move  a  cot  bed  in  and  let  me  sleep  here  ?" 
he  pleaded  very  humbly.  "I  hate  to  be  a  nuisance,  but  I'm 
used  to  a  room  like  this.  You  see,  I  always  was  a  crank 
about  lights " 

Americus  Gallop  snorted  once  and  his  jelly-mould  of  a 
body  quivered  in  every  atom.  Purple  mounted  to  his 
cheeks,  large  tears  streamed  from  the  slits  where  his  eyes 
had  been. 

"Father  can't  survive  this,"  drawled  America  in  a  voice 
of  genuine  concern. 

Somewhere  in  New  York  Mrs.  Van  Zoon  got  over  being 
angry  and  received  a  call  from  Mr.  Dulcimer  in  late 
Spring.  The  slender  one  seemed  disheartened  and  explained 
that  he  had  left  the  West  before  it  spoiled  him,  as  it  was 
spoiling  Admah  Hoag.  This  so  alarmed  her  that  she 
packed  at  once  and  arrived  at  Harnessville  just  in  time  for 
the  wedding,  held  at  night  and  celebrated  by  such  an  electric 
display  as  had  not  been  seen  thereabouts  since  the  last 
State  Fair. 


JUST  as  a  combination  of   nasty  weather    and  engine 
trouble  drove  the  much-enduring  y£neas  upon  the  lisp 
ing  sands  where  waited  a  temperamental  Dido,  so  did 
the  poor  teamwork  of  the  Fates  beach  Miss  Hortense  Troutt 
— to  change  the  sex  of  our  simile — against  those  imposing 
bluffs  that  guard  the  uplands  of  superior  thought.     Cross 
currents  and  poor  navigation  instructions  had  done  the  work 
for  Miss  Hortense. 

Back  in  Rockinock,  no  doubt,  Aunt  Hen  would  have 
declared  that  Hortense  was  getting  ideas,  and  would  have 
prescribed  a  course  of  intensive  culture  in  the  Baptist 
church;  but  it  was  a  far  cry  from  Rockinock  to  Thirty- 
second  Street,  where  Miss  Hortense  was  pouring  coffee  out 
of  one  of  those  tinny  percolators  and  contemplating  an 
egg  which  was  fresh  without  being  aggressive.  In  the 
language  of  birds  she  rather  favoured  the  chickadee  type. 
Plump,  small,  black-eyed,  she  had  been  one  useful  little  drop 
in  the  huge  industrial  bucket  and  counted  herself  lucky 
until  this  cussed  week,  which  had  culminated  in  the  soul 
revolution  of  the  night  before. 

Slaves  are  never  lucky,  she  concluded  this  morning  while 
she  contemplated  the  choking  sobs  of  her  patent  percolator. 
Slaves  are  merely  subservient,  stupidly  contented  at  best; 
and  the  stirring  scenes  of  last  night  at  the  International 
Button  Moulders'  rally  came  vividly  back  to  her  aching 
thoughts.  Again  she  saw  the  red-draped  platform  of  Har 
monica  Hall,  where  Judith  Kelp,  the  insurgent,  had  led  her, 

244 


FREE  245 

protesting;  again  she  saw  the  imposing,  rather  well-filled 
figure  of  Harriet  Pebbles  Cull,  spokeslady  of  liberty,  as  she 
braced  her  fingers  against  the  rostrum  table  and  pumped 
the  crystal  waters  of  truth  over  the  fevered  heads  which  had 
come  to  receive  just  such  a  shower. 

Under  that  baptism  Hortense  had  gasped  at  first — gasped 
and  awakened.  Light  had  flooded  her  prison  cell ;  she  had 
struggled  to  rise  and  been  mocked  by  her  chains — figura 
tively  speaking,  of  course.  As  a  matter  of  physical  fact  she 
had  sat  quietly  for  three  hours,  eagerly  absorbing  Mrs.  Cull's 
lecture,  and  at  the  door  as  she  passed  out  a  comrade  had 
handed  her  a  sample  copy  of  The  Unshackled,  Mrs.  Cull's 
weekly  paper. 

Contagion,  doctors  tell  us,  awaits  upon  conditions.  Had 
conditions  been  different  Hortense,  no  doubt,  would  have 
walked  away  immune  and  never  have  come  down  with  this 
violent  attack  of  Cull.  But  here  it  was,  nearly  the  first  of 
the  month  again,  rent  coming  due  and  not  a  word  from  Lulu 
McCabe,  her  flat  mate,  who  had  disappeared  weeks  ago,  to 
join  her  husband,  she  said. 

Patrick  McCabe,  alias  Turnbull  Bromworthy,  of  the 
Lummox  Film  Corporation,  was  rehearsing  a  Western  Front 
movie  Somewhere  in  Jersey ;  that  was  his  own  business — 
or  was  it?  If  it  was  his  passing  whim  that  his  faithful  wife, 
whom  he  had  nine  times  threatened  with  divorce,  should 
bide  with  him,  was  it  Hortense  Troutt's  duty  to  go  on  paying 
that  half  of  the  rent  which  Lulu  McCabe  had  solemnly 
sworn  to  assume  as  her  share? 

Normally  sweet  and  self-abnegating  to  excess,  Hortense 
Troutt  wasn't  like  herself  this  morning.  Possibly  she  was 
like  her  alter  ego,  which  might  have  been  lurking  all  these 
years.  The  sweep  of  the  steel  knife  with  which  she  was 
reclaiming  a  scorched  area  on  a  slice  of  toast  was  positively 
murderous.  She  hated  this  apartment  with  all  its  movie- 
actor  pictures  and  everything  tied  up  in  Lulu's  pink-ribbon 
effects.  The  awful  place  was  leased  in  her  name  for  the 
monthly  rental  of  forty  dollars;  half  of  that  hadn't  been  a 


246  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

great  burden,  considering  her  salary.  But  faced  with  the 
problem  of  going  it  alone  it  was  as  though  the  whole  shoddy 
apartment  house  had  risen  up  and  come  down  upon  her. 
Lulu  had  seemed  such  a  nice,  generous,  sweet-tempered 
example  of  the  paying  chaperon ! 

Hortense  grunted  and  sat  down  at  the  reconvertible 
library  table  at  the  centre  of  the  well-sized  living  room.  She 
bit  her  toast,  inflicting  a  savage  wound.  That  bite  was 
directed  against  all  the  enemies  of  society  whom  Harriet 
Pebbles  Cull  had  so  systematically  outlined  in  last  night's 
lecture.  It  was  poor  Saul  Shilpik,  Jr.,  upon  whom  she  set 
her  teeth  most  impatiently.  Saul  had  become  a  pest  and  a 
bore  in  her  business  career ;  more  than  that  she  now  knew 
him  to  be  a  menace.  Hadn't  Aunt  Hen  warned  her  a  year 
ago,  upon  her  departure  for  the  perils  of  the  great  city,  to 
beware  the  affable  attentions  of  wealthy  employers?  Affable 
was  the  word,  referring  to  Saul,  Jr.  Not  that  he  could  be 
called  either  an  employer  or  wealthy,  strictly  speaking,  since 
the  affairs  of  the  Quick  Supply  Photo  Syndicate  were 
firmly  held  in  the  plump  clutch  of  Mr.  Saul  Shilpik,  Sr. 
But  the  principle  was  annoyingly  the  same.  His  image 
kept  getting  in  her  way  this  morning,  intruding  upon  her 
social  discontent 

"I'm  a  slave!"  she  informed  herself,  sipping  the  coffee, 
which  was  not  much  warmer  than  the  tears  that  were  start 
ing  to  her  eyes.  As  though  to  seek  confirmation  of  this 
cheerful  discovery  she  glanced  across  the  long  table  and 
saw  a  copy  of  The  Unshackled  neatly  displaying  its  artisti 
cally  set  editorial  page  upon  a  pile  of  frivolous  magazines. 
Hortense  rose  and  snatched  the  copy  to  her,  her  eyes  burn 
ing  upon  a  solid  paragraph,  all  too  plainly  entitled :  Slaves, 
Arise ! 

"Slaves  of  Industry,  sweating  serfs  of  Greed,"  began 
the  editorial  in  the  restrained  style  peculiar  to  The  Un 
shackled,  "do  you  see  any  way  of  bettering  your  condition 
by  lying  flat  on  your  faces  under  the  heel  of  a  suave  and 
mocking  Capitalism?  .  .  .  You,  the  gigantic  Many,  grow 


FREE  247 

weak  from  inaction,  while  Capital,  gaining  in  pounds,  will 
soon  crush  you  by  the  very  weight  of  its  fat.  .  .  .  Do  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  belong  to  the  snake  who  coils  or  the 
wolf  who  devours?  .  .  .  Under  the  so-called  protection  of 
a  hypocritical  Republic  you  are  ground  down  by  a  Feudal 
ism  which  reveals  the  tyranny  of  Charlemagne  without 
the  glory  of  his  armour.  .  .  ." 

Which  was  all  very  encouraging.  But  it  was  the  follow 
ing  statements  which  gave  to  Hortense  Troutt  a  series  of 
wild  surmises : 

"In  the  new  state  which  our  programme  includes — which 
is  our  programme,  in  fact — there  will  be  no  such  thing  as  in 
equality  of  service.  When  all  are  sharing  alike  in  the  work 
and  its  rewards  what  need  of  Slave  Drivers?  None.  The 
Slave  Driver  is  as  obsolete  as  the  stegosaur,  if  we  but  knew 
it.  Work  should  be  and  shall  be  a  fair  and  happy  partner 
ship.  If  we  must  have  business — and  that  is  a  questionable 
blessing  to  all  emancipated  minds — why  should  the  fat  and 
lazy  schemer  who  sits  in  greedy  dreams  at  his  desk  be  any 
better  rewarded  than  the  skilled  artisan,  the  useful  pro 
ducer  who  makes  business  possible  ?  We  have  as  yet  heard 
no  satisfactory  answer  to  this  question.  Perhaps  some  rep 
resentative  of  the  self-satisfied  bourgeoisie " 

Hortense,  who  had  grown  to  hate  the  bourgeoisie — which 
she  pronounced  boor  joysey — had  about  made  up  her  mind 
that  one  thing  was  the  matter  with  the  whole  system  which 
had  run  her  life  into  a  blind  alley.  Lulu  McCabe  was  boor 
joysey ;  Saul  Shilpik,  Sr.,  was  boor  joysey ;  and  as  to  Saul, 
Jr. — she  struggled  in  vain  for  some  superlative  with  which 
to  express  a  sort  of  glowing  self-satisfaction  in  a  sinful  state 
of  capitalism. 

Thus  reflecting  Hortense  Troutt  turned  the  key  upon  the 
pretty  apartment,  with  which  she  was  no  more  pleased 
now  than  was  Prometheus  with  the  rough  rock  which 
barked  his  shins.  Considering  bitterly  that  she  would  have 
to  find  a  tenant  or  a  flat  mate  or  a  boarding  house,  she  tucked 
her  copy  of  The  Unshackled  like  a  sword  of  defiance  under 


248  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

her  arm.  Going  down  in  the  elevator,  which  had  always  re 
minded  her  of  a  badly  regilded  secondhand  bird  cage,  she 
opened  her  comfort  at  the  editorial  page  and  read :  "Harriet 
Pebbles  Cull,  editor  in  chief." 

That  helped  her  make  up  her  mind  that  something  was 
pretty  much  wrong  with  everything  and  that  she  didn't 
know  what  to  do  about  it.  But  on  her  way  down  to  the 
office  she  had  about  decided  that  if  Saul,  Jr.,  didn't  stick  to 
his  own  work  and  let  hers  alone  she  would  be  forced  to  tell 
him  something  worth  remembering. 

Hortense's  mother,  when  there  was  such  a  person,  used 
to  tell  it  as  a  scientific  fact  that  there  were  days  when  chil 
dren  just  naturally  got  up  out  of  the  wrong  side  of  the  bed. 

"Sauljer's  lookin'  for  you!"  squawked  a  freckled  stenog- 
raflapper  almost  as  soon  as  Hortense  had  laid  aside'  her 
hat  in  the  cloakroom  of  the  Quick  Service  Photo  Syndicate. 
It  must  be  explained  that  Saul,  Jr.,  and  Saul,  Sr.,  respec 
tively  but  unofficially  enjoyed  the  abbreviations  of  Sauljer 
and  Saulser  among  the  force. 

"Thank  you." 

Hortense  gave  this  for  the  worm  to  chew  on  with  her 
gum.  She  had  never  been  afraid  of  Sauljer  as  she  was  of 
Saulser ;  and  this  morning  it  was  as  though  the  white  spirit 
of  Harriet  Pebbles  Cull  stood  at  her  shoulder,  urging  her 
on  to  a  keen  blow  against  the  ogre  here  incarnate. 

She  should  have  gone  straight  into  Sauljer's  office,  but 
instead  she  lingered  in  her  own  little  compartment  tidying 
her  already  perfectly  tidy  desk.  And  Sauljer  came  to  her. 
He  was  always  down  early  when  Hortense  was  late,  and 
this  morning  his  I-told-you-so  spread  over  his  white  teeth 
and  terminated  in  little  wrinkles  under  his  ears.  His  coat 
was  off,  and  through  the  armholes  of  his  greenish  waist 
coat  lavender  silk  sleeves  protruded,  large  cameos  clinking 
in  the  cuffs  as  Sauljer  brought  his  expressive  hands  to 
gether. 

He  was  a  florid  young  man  with  florid  grey  eyes  and  a 
becoming  wave  in  the  inky  blackness  of  his  hair. 


FREE  249 

"Oh,  welcome,  welcome !"  said  he,  shaking  his  own  hand 
most  cordially.  "It's  all  right,  girlie,  if  you  can  get  away 
with  it.  The  time  clock's  out  of  order  and  I  won't  tell  the 
boss  on  you." 

"I  have  nothing  to  conceal,"  responded  Hortense  with 
the  air  of  a  duchess  accused  of  smuggling  pearls.  She 
seated  herself,  seeing  no  good  reason  for  standing.  Her 
resolution  seemed  to  put  Sauljer  more  at  his  ease,  for  he 
came  over  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  desk. 

"Thirty  below  and  a  coal  strike  on."  It  was  really  quite 
pleasant  spring  weather,  so  his  parable  was  apparent. 
"Now  come  on,  girlie,  and  fess  up.  What's  the  idea?" 

"If  you'll  look  on  the  pay  roll,"  said  she,  bringing  down 
an  upper  lip  which  was  quaint  without  being  unbeautiful, 
"you'll  find  that  my  name  isn't  Girlie.  It's  Troutt." 

"That's  a  little  bit  fishy  for  you."  He  seemed  immensely 
pleased  with  his  own  sidewalk  comedy. 

"I  can  laugh  at  your  name  too,"  she  told  him. 

"That's  only  fair,"  said  Sauljer  as  he  stood  and  braced 
himself  against  her  desk  on  the  heels  of  his  palms.  "It's  a 
busy  day  and  I'm  essentially  a  business  man.  Now  look 
here,  girlie-trout,  I've  got  a  flat  proposition  to  make :  Sup 
pose  I  blow  round  to  your  igloo  at  about  six-thirty  under 
a  canopy  of  American  Beauties  and  we  can  buzz  over  to 
Sherry's  for  a  mess  of  beans.  Maybe  we'll  have  time  for  the 
Winter  Garden — who  knows?  What?  How  does  that 
listen?" 

"No." 

And  her  upper  lip  grew  longer  by  just  that  hair's  breadth 
which  can  make  a  difference  in  a  destiny. 

"Oh,  very  well." 

Sauljer  was  looking  at  her  very  intently.  He  had  a  not 
unpleasant  gaze,  the  stupid  slave  in  Hortense's  heart  was 
suggesting;  but  his  eyes  rested  only  a  moment,  then 
shifted  nervously,  guiltily,  toward  the  glassy  partition  be 
yond.  Old  Saulser  was  in  there,  as  a  bronchial  cough  and  a 
series  of  rasping  growls  proclaimed.  Saulser  would  be  sore. 


250  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Having  no  managerial  status  in  the  Quick  Service  Photo 
Syndicate,  young  Saul  had  no  business  loafing  and  flirting  on 
his  father's  time.  As  if  to  ease  his  conscience,  he  consulted 
the  diamond-fringed  face  of  his  wafer  watch. 

"Gee!"  he  said;  and  then  rapidly,  as  though  clutching  in 
midair :  "you  know,  Miss  Hortense  Troutt,  that  I'm  not  ask 
ing  you  out  for  any  Kit  Kat  revel.  Everything  nice  and 
everything.  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Isadore  Zull  along  as  a  chaperon 
and " 

"No."  Her  black  eyes  were  turned  up  to  him  in  tremen 
dous  earnestness.  "If  I'm  late,  as  you  say  I  am,  you'd 
better  let  me  go  to  work." 

"Come  down  to  the  footlights,  Hortense!"  he  begged  of 
her.  "What's  the  idea?  Ain't  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Zull  good 
enough  for  you  ?  Zull's  third  vice  president  of  the  Cyanide 
National  Bank,  if  I  got  to  boast  about  it." 

"It  isn't  that,  Saul,"  she  permitted  herself;  and  only 
wished  he  would  go  away  before  The  Unshackled  got  control 
of  the  discussion.  "It  isn't  that.  I  don't  think  you'd  under 
stand " 

"Come  on  and  teach  me,"  he  pleaded. 

"Well,  under  the  false  social  system  in  which  we  live  it's 

— it's "  How  she  wished  she  could  remember  Mrs. 

Cull's  inspired  phrasing! — "it's  important  for  employees 
not  to  accept  unearned  favours  from  employers  and " 

"Where  do  you  get  that  third-reel  stuff  ?"  Saul,  Jr.,  was 
beginning  to  show  some  of  the  irritability  which  in  the  case 
of  his  father  served  as  power  for  his  engines. 

"Don't  you  call  it  stuff !"  spluttered  the  slave.  "Because 
you  belong  to  the  capitalistic  class  you  think  you  have  a 
right  to  sneer  at  the  really  serious  thinkers  of  the  world. 
When  there's  a  proper  and  fair  division  of  labour" — she  was 
making  a  sort  of  club  sandwich  out  of  Mrs.  Cull,  but  she 
said  it  rapidly  and  it  sounded  logical  to  her  at  the  moment — 
"there  won't  be  any  feudal  people  or  any  down 
trodden " 

"My  Gawd!"  he  groaned.    "Emma  must  have  got  her." 


FREE  251 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  But  I  do  know  that  when 
our  programme  is  carried  out  then  capitalism  will  have  to 
stop.  The  man  at  the  desk  doesn't  deserve  any  more  re 
wards  than  he  who  wins  by  the  skill  of  his  hands." 

"What  you  kickin'  about?    You  got  a  desk  job." 

At  this  point  the  wheezing  in  the  next  compartment  in 
creased  to  the  laboured  breathing  of  a  locomotive.  A  shape 
less  shadow  loomed  against  the  frosted  glass  of  the  door, 
which  swung  slowly  open. 

"I  knew  it,"  whispered  Sauljer.  "You've  gone  and  roused 
up  Papa.  He's  got  an  awful  grouch,  anyway." 

The  vision  of  the  roused  Papa  now  completely  rilled  the 
open  doorway,  a  picture  of  pinkish  vengeance.  His  com 
plexion  showed  the  pink  which  glows  on  the  brow  of  an 
enraged  baby;  the  tonsure  of  his  pinkish  hair,  surrounding 
a  pink  bald  spot,  seemed  to  bristle  with  his  mood.  There 
were  ogreish  spaces  between  his  square  teeth.  Old  Shilpik, 
who  had  served  nis  time  as  a  newspaper  photographer,  that 
tribe  of  horny-souled  heroes  who  will  with  equal  calmness 
unscrew  the  lid  of  a  coffin  for  a  close-up  of  the  late  lamented 
or  climb  a  flagpole  to  get  a  good  snapshot  of  a  Knights- 
Templar  parade,  was  not  of  the  breed  to  permit  a  Soviet  to 
sit  harping  in  the  Wilhelmstrasse. 

"What's  all  this  shenanigan  about?"  he  demanded,  his 
complexion  deepening  to  the  hue  of  a  young  baby  who  has 
been  holding  its  breath. 

"Just  a  little  gassing,  Papa,"  replied  young  Saul,  horribly 
crushed. 

"This  ain't  no  gas  corporation,"  came  the  immediate,  un 
answerable  argument.  "But  it's  getting  worse  than  that. 
You'd  think  this  place  was  being  run  by  a  committee,  same 
as  Russia.  Go  back  to  your  office,  Solly.  The  Tribune  is 
queryin'  about  those  wreck  pictures." 

"Yes,   Papa." 

Sauljer  took  a  few  steps,  like  a  little  dog  being  stoned 
home,  then  loitered  by  the  door. 

"And  you  look  here,  young  lady!"     Despite  her  pro- 


252  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

gramme  the  young  lady  had  risen  before  the  pink  incarna 
tion  of  capitalism,  towering  fatly  above  her.  "I've  had  just 
about  enough  of  this  whangdoodle.  You're  hired  to  do  your 
work,  see  ?  We  can  get  plenty  of  conversation  at  home,  see  ? 
Didn't  I  hear  you  hollerin'  about  capitalism  and  stuff  ?" 

Hortense  wanted  to  tell  Saulser,  just  as  she  had  told 
Sauljer,  that  Mrs.  Cull  didn't  teach  stuff;  instead  she 
trembling  acknowledged  her  anticapitalistic  preachment. 

"Well,  you  look  here !"  Hortense  was  earnestly  looking 
there  at  that  moment.  "I  can  hire  a  good  Socialist  off'n  the 
Cooper  Union  to  come  here  and  lecture  for  half  I'm  givin' 
you.  Your  personal  convictions  ain't  nothing  to  me — under 
stand?  If  this  place  ain't  big  enough  for  your  head  to 
swell  in — out!" 

"Aw,  Papa !"  came  the  voice  of  Sauljer  from  his  obscure 
corner.  "Hortense  don't  really  mean  that  stuff.  She's 
only  kiddin'." 

"Kiddin'  ?"  asked  Saulser.  By  his  colour  now  it  was  plain 
to  see  he  was  holding  his  breath.  "Kiddin'  ?  Maybe  you'd 
like  to  have  a  little  vaudeville  or  something  while  the 
Tribune's  waiting.  Now  look  here!  Any  more  shilly 
shallying  and  bohunkus  and  I  fire  the  both  of  you.  See?" 

In  one  sweeping  glance  Hortense  got  an  impression  of  the 
cowering  Sauljer,  quite  pale  above  his  brave  haberdashery. 
And  she  mad-e  her  stand. 

"You  needn't  take  the  trouble,  Mr.  Shilpik,"  she  an 
nounced.  "You  may  accept  my  resignation." 

There  fell  the  desolate  blank  which  follows  an  explosion. 
A  deafening  silence  seemed  to  resound  toward  her  from 
Sauljer's  corner. 

"Can  you  beat  that?"  asked  Mr.  Shilpik  of  space.  "The 
secretary  of  state  has  resigned.  Maybe  you'll  write  it  out 
before  a  notary  public." 

"That  won't  be  necessary,"  she  told  him  in  a  voice  of 
alarming  superiority.  "I  don't  care  to  be  connected  with 
the  commercial  slavery  which  gives  all  the  rewards  to  greed 
and  none  to  industry " 


FREE  253 

"What's  the  girl  been  takin'  ?"  asked  the  sire  of  his  now 
silent  son. 

"Neither  of  you  would  understand  my  point  of  view,"  she 
continued,  and  was  entranced  to  find  that  her  voice  was  at 
a  pitch  resembling  Mrs.  Cull's.  "Neither  of  you  would 
understand  because  you  belong  to  a  class  which  is  as  absolute 
as  the  stagger-sore.  You  are  boor  joyseys,  both  of  you." 

"I  can  call  names,  too,  but  I  ain't  got  time  to  behave 
ungentlemanly.  Solly,  git  the  hell  out  of  here  and  tend  to 
that  Tribune  query." 

The  glass  door  slammed  and  Hortense  knew  that  her  one 
weak  champion  had  departed. 

"And  now,  young  lady,"  said  Capital,  looming  over  her — 
he  had  faded  to  a  pale-salmon  colour  and  a  business  calm 
had  settled  down — "you  can  step  round  to  the  treasurer's 
office  any  time." 

He  was  gone.  But  he  had  no  sooner  disappeared  behind 
the  partitions  than  she  could  hear  his  wheezy  voice  com 
manding  of  some  one  to  send  Miss  Carhart  in.  Hortense 
knew  what  that  meant.  Miss  Carhart  was  next  in  succession 
to  her  desk.  The  d-ethroned  one  set  immediately  to  work 
removing  a  vanity  case,  six  personal  letters,  a  back  copy  of 
The  Unshackled  and  a  half-eaten  mess  of  candy  from  the 
top  drawer.  When  Miss  Carhart  passed  through  on  her 
way  toward  promotion  Hortense  never  looked  up.  But 
she  could  have  killed  herself  for  the  irritating  tear  which 
trickled  down  to  the  end  of  her  little  nose.  Even  slaves 
are  jealous  of  their  oarlocks  in  the  galley. 

Sauljer  had  warned  her  that  her  ravings  against  capital 
ism  and  the  down-crushing  of  the  working  gel  was  third- 
reel  stuff,  and  her  sensations  were  undoubtedly  cinemato 
graphic  as  she  came  back  to  her  apartment  in  Thirty-second 
Street,  opened  the  door  and  went  desolately  in.  A  martyr's 
exaltation  had  sustained  her  up  to  now,  but  the  place  had 
the  uninviting  appearance  of  a  self-kept  apartment  in  mid- 
morning.  No  sooner  had  she  closed  the  door  on  the  inside 
than  she  spied  a  white  envelope  on  the  rug. 


254  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

y^ •"•* •"™™'*""*^— ™~^ ™"~™ """""^ * m*" *-••-•'••••''••— •^••^•» 

At  first  she  thought  it  was  another  of  those  bills  she  had 
been  keeping  for  Lulu,  but  she  picked  it  up  to  find  that  it 
was  worse.  It  bore  the  large  elaborate  trade-mark  of  the 
Lummox  Film  Corporation ;  it  was  addressed  in  Lulu  Mc- 
Cabe's  hand,  and  Hortense  just  knew  it  would  carry  bitter 
tidings. 

"Honey  Kid,"  it  began — which  was  bad,  because  Lulu  always 
began  with  a  pet  name  when  she  wanted  to  put  something  over 
— "Honey  Kid,  that  sweet,  wicked,  adorable  Hubbins  of  mine 
is  going  to  be  the  whole  camera  in  Captain  Killdevil,  which  is 
going  to  be  some  spectacle,  believe  me !  I'm  going  to  have  a 
fine  part.  It's  going  to  be  grand.  Now  don't  get  mad,  you 
darling,  but  I  just  simply  can't  get  away  from  Newark  for  at 
least  three  months.  I  don't  suppose  you  want  to  get  some  nice 
girl  and  run  the  flat  yourself,  do  you?  Or  if  you  think  it 
would  be  too  much  trouble,  why  not  the  Kelleys  ?  I  told  them 
about  the  place  and  they're  crazy  to  move  in  any  time.  Just 
temporary.  But  don't  disturb  yourself,  dear,  if  you  really  want 
to  stay.  Will  you  please  express  trunk  to  me,  care  the  Lummox 
Corporation,  Newark,  N.  J.,  and  oblige?  Come  and  see  me 
sometime.  It's  going  to  be  a  grand  film. 
"With  dear  love. 

LULU." 

"Now  that's  all  arranged,"  thought  Hortense  with  one 
of  those  monosyllabic  laughs  which  sound  like  short,  heavy 
bumps  along  the  road  to  disillusionment.  It  was  all  so 
simple  for  Lulu,  who  had  a  way  of  simplifying  her  troubles 
by  complicating  other  people's.  Just  ship  her  trunk  to 
Newark  and  go  on  paying  all  the  rent.  It  was  now  the 
last  week  in  April  and  the  lease  terminated  in  another  year, 
come  May. 

The  insurgent  slave  sat  for  a  long  time  in  the  midst  of 
that  untidy  studio  room,  a  copy  of  The  Unshackled  folded 
loosely  under  her  listless  hands.  Undoubtedly  she  had 
chosen  an  unpropitious  day  for  her  revolt  against  capitalism. 
Possibly,  with  the  aid  of  Sauljer,  she  reflected,  she  could 
return  even  now  and  eat  humble  pie  at  the  shrine  of  the 
offended  if  offensive  Saulser.  No.  Starvation  were  better 
than  such  hateful  nourishment.  With  the  world  full  of 


FREE  255 

such  high-minded  thinkers  as  she  had  seen  and  heard  at 
the  Button  Moulders'  rally  was  it  possible  that  a  girl  in  her 
position  must  still  be  compelled  to  humiliate  herself  before 
capitalism  in  order  to  gain  for  herself  a  bare  livelihood? 

As  though  in  answer  to  her  question  Harriet  Pebbles 
Cull's  editorial  on  Slaves  stared  up  at  her  from  her  lap.  "In 
the  New  State  ...  no  such  thing  as  inequality  of  serv 
ice.  .  .  .  The  Slave  Driver  is  as  obsolete  as  the  stegosaur. 
.  .  .  Work  ...  a  fair  and  happy  partnership." 

Clouds  of  comforting  incense !  Here,  then,  lay  the  remedy 
for  all  her  woes — Harriet  Pebbles  Cull,  editor  in  chief, 
twenty  cents  the  copy,  eight  dollars  the  year,  to  any  address 
in  the  United  States  or  Canada. 

It  was  a  fateful  convenience  that  Hortense  Troutt  at  that 
moment  still  retained  her  hat  and  coat.  Had  she  been  com 
pelled  to  put  them  on  she  might  have  had  time  to  reconsider. 
Details  cramp  decisions.  Caesar's  assassins  never  stopped 
to  change  their  togas.  The  hat  and  coat  did  the  business  for 
Hortense  Troutt,  who  was  off  in  the  jiffy  of  her  impulse; 
and  it  seemed  no  time  at  all  ere  a  green  bus  had  delivered  her 
at  the  arched  doorway  in  lower  Fifth  Avenue  which  bore 
the  card  Unshackled  Publishing  Company,  Third  Floor. 
Thus  easily  did  Alice  pop  through  three  and  a  half  dimen 
sions,  down  the  rabbit  hole  and  into  the  presence  of  a  magic 
bottle  labelled  Drink  Me. 

She  found  herself  in  a  waiting  room  which  was  like  any 
other  waiting  room  save  for  the  fact  that  the  pictures  on 
the  walls  were  about  equally  divided  between  photographs 
of  mobs  being  violently  handled  by  the  police  and  paintings 
which,  to  Hortense,  conveyed  no  clearer  message  than  that 
somebody's  children  had  been  messing  in  a  box  of  water 
colours.  A  girl  in  an  apron-like  garment,  a  girl  with  stringy 
hair  above  a  stringy  neck,  glared  up  from  her  desk  to  inform 
her  that  Mrs.  Cull  was  busy  just  now.  Over  in  a  corner  an 
untidy  gentleman  with  a  Vandyke  beard  sat,  knees  crossed, 
huddled  diagonally  against  a  dapper  person  of  the  commer 
cial-drummer  type.  Hortense  hoped  that  the  dapper  one 


256  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

was  a  new  convert  being  instructed  in  the  code  of  the  un 
shackled,  but  her  straining  ears  were  disappointed  to  find 
that  they  were  arguing  in  a  strange,  commercial  jargon, 
bandying  stock  terms  over  the  increasing  cost  of  white 
paper. 

"Harriet  Pebbles  Cull,"  announced  the  distinguishing 
label  on  a  glazed  door.  This  door  swung  open  and  a  fattish, 
rather  goodlooking  young  man  emerged,  pulling  a  golf  cap 
over  a  wealth  of  bushy  curls.  He  wore  a  soft  shirt  open 
at  the  throat  above  a  blue  suit  which  was  shiny  and 
spotted.  Hortense  reflected  that  he  needed  sponging.  His 
greyish  shoes  seemed  to  spurt  dust  as  he  walked.  She  was 
to  know  him  later  as  Larry  Hoden,  the  Harvard-bred 
tramp;  but  this  morning  he  merely  represented  to  her  a 
symbol  of  the  newer  freedom  beyond. 

Feeling  for  all  the  world  like  Alice  about  to  be  spoken 
to  by  the  rabbit  with  the  white  gloves,  Hortense  blushed 
when  he  turned  and  would  have  addressed  her  as  comrade, 
no  doubt,  had  not  her  freshman  shyness  unnerved  him.  He 
looked  up  at  the  clock  instead  and  said  in  the  most  refined 
tone  possible :  "As  I  live,  it's  time  to  hit  the  trail  again !" 
Thus  his  exit. 

"She's  ready  now,"  said  the  stringy  girl,  giving  Hortense 
a  sour  smile  as  she  followed  meekly  and  faced  the  owner 
of  the  great  name  upon  the  door.  Her  guide  clicked  the 
latch  behind  her  and  left  her  alone  with  the  prophetess  of  a 
better  dawn,  who  showed  no  intention  of  either  seeing  or 
hearing  her  visitor.  On  closer  view  Harriet  Pebbles  Cull 
looked  more  forbidding  than  she  had  last  night  on  the  ros 
trum,  when  she  had  opened  her  arms  to  the  working  gels  of 
the  world  and  bidden  them  be  of  good  cheer.  With  a  long, 
fine-pointed  pencil  she  was  counting  the  words  of  a  type 
written  manuscript;  the  violet  eyes  were  not  unkind  but 
merely  concentrated. 

"Well?"  asked  the  editor  in  chief  at  last  without  look 
ing  up. 

"I — I'm  Miss  Troutt"    As  soon  as  she  had  said  it  she 


FREE  257 

knew  that  this  was  no  way  to  begin.  "I — we  met — I  met  you 
at  the  Button  Moulders'  rally." 

"Miss  Troutt  ?"  The  seeress  knitted  her  brows ;  then  she 
took  a  good  look  at  Hortense,  and  apparently  liking  the  view 
assumed  a  smile  which  was  as  comprehensive  and  general  as 
any  of  her  theories. 

"No,  you're  not  Miss  Troutt,"  she  corrected  with  the  air 
of  ineffable  kindness  which  Buddha  must  have  used  toward 
his  less  brilliant  disciples.  "There  aren't  any  Misses  here. 
What  is  your  first  name  ?" 

"Hortense,"  replied  the  confused  one. 

"Comrade  Hortense — that's  better.  And  now,  Comrade 
Hortense,  what  is  it?" 

"Why,  you  see,  Mrs.  Cull " 

"Comrade  Harriet,  if  you  please.    We  are  all  equals." 

"Comrade  Harriet" — it  was  like  meeting  Elihu  Root  for 
the  first  time  and  calling  him  Uncle  El,  but  Hortense  was 
game — "Comrade  Harriet,  I'm  only  a  working  girl  and " 

"A  working  gel,  yes."  Comrade  Harriet's  accent  was 
wonderfully  civilised.  "And  you  wish  to  identify  yourself 
with  the  cause  ?" 

"Oh,  very  much!  I  heard  your  speech,  and  I've  been 
reading  your  paper ;  your  fine  views  on  everything  made  such 
an  impression  on  me  that  this  morning  I  went  right  down  to 
the  office  and  resigned  my  situation." 

"I  see."  Comrade  Harriet's  pure  brow  was  all  but  haloed 
with  an  expression  of  divine  guidance.  "Another  slave  aris 
ing  against  his  driver.  I  am  very  happy  to  hear  this,  com 
rade.  Our  work  is  spreading." 

"And  I've  come  to  you  because  you  have  such  a  wonder 
ful  mind  and  can  advise  me  about  getting  a  job  somewhere 
where  I  won't  have  to  be  bossed  round  by  the  boor  joysey." 

"Boor-zhwah-zee,"  corrected  Comrade  Harriet.  She 
didn't  laugh  or  make  light  of  Hortense's  bad  French.  In 
fact,  it  seemed  impossible  for  her  to  make  light  of  anything. 
"I  distinctly  see  what  you  mean.  You  refuse  to  remain  a 
slave  to  the  capitalistic  system." 


258  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

r^ "™ "*"^ *" *"i*'~— ~*^^~"^^~"~~^^^~~"''*— ^•™"**'* 

"That's  it !"  Hortense  was  wildly  glad  that  she  had  come. 
"You  see  I'm  an  expert  stenographer  and  business  secretary. 
If  I  could  get  away  from  those  capitalists  I'd  work  for  quite 
a  reduction." 

"Stenographer  and  business  secretary/'  mused  Harriet 
Pebbles  Cull.  "A  profession  which  will  become  obsolete 
upon  the  dissolution  of  the  commercial  hierarchy." 

"I  was  thinking  that  you  might  have  some  job  for  me 
round  your  office." 

This  came  all  in  one  breath. 

"My  dearest  child !"  Comrade  Harriet's  look  was  honey- 
sweet.  "The  work  of  the  Unshackled  office  is  largely  a 
labour  of  love.  Comrade  Elsa,  my  associate  who  sits  out 
side,  and  Comrade  Larry,  whom  you  may  have  seen  just 
now,  have  small  incomes  from  the  capitalist  class,  from 
which  they  have  been  converted.  All  of  our  contributions 
are  in  the  nature  of  propaganda  and  are  of  course  supplied 
without  charge.  Won't  you  sit  down  ?" 

Comrade  Harriet  eyed  her  curiously  during  a  pause  in 
which  she  held  her  pencil  by  its  long  point  and  caressed  a 
handsome  eyebrow  with  the  rubber. 

"Comrade  Hortense,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  approve  of  the 
brave  stand  you  have  taken  against  the  spoiler.  H'm.  And 
yet  secession  is  sometimes  inopportune  before  a  definite 
programme  is  indicated.  Do  you  understand  me  ?" 

Hortense  supposed  vaguely  that  it  meant  you  shouldn't 
quit  one  job  before  another  was  in  sight. 

"But  rather  than  expose  you  again  to  the  capitalism  from 
which  you  are  now  free,  let  me  suggest  an  idea  of  my  own. 
How  would  you  like  to  enter  with  me  into  a  partnership 
based  on  the  equality  of  reward?" 

"That's  awfully  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Cu — Comrade  Har 
riet,"  replied  the  shattered  being,  thinking  that  she  was  being 
offered  a  half  interest  in  the  Unshackled  Publishing  Com 
pany.  "But  wouldn't  that  be  giving  me  too  much  ?" 

Mrs.  Cull  waved  a  shapely  hand  which  was  ringed  with 
carved  jade  set  in  old  silver. 


FREE  259 

"To  us  there  is  no  such  expression  as  'too  much.'  Par 
ticipation  is  the  very  heartbeat  of  communism.  Have  you 
ever  done  general  housework?" 

Hortense  was  now  swimming  fast  to  keep  up  with  the 
rising  tide  of  suggestions. 

"Why,  yes.  Aunt  Hen  keeps  a  boarding  house  back  in 
Rockinock.  She's  taught  me  quite  considerable." 

"Excellent!  Then  you  will  fall  in  very  nicely  with  my 
programme.  I  have  a  studio  apartment — the  task  of  direc 
tion  would  fall  most  properly  to  me.  The  work  of  produc 
tion — no  less  important  and  dignified — would  constitute  your 
half  in  the  equal  partnership." 

"What  would  I  be  expected  to  do  ?"  asked  Hortense,  who 
was  already  half  hypnotised.  At  the  direct  question  Mrs. 
Cull  braced  two  slender  forefingers  against  two  white  teeth 
and  sat  a  while  in  thought. 

"Your  work  would  consist  largely,"  she  defined  at  last, 
"in  converting  raw  material  into  terms  of  human  comfort, 
the  nutriment  of  strength,  health  and  intelligence.  There 
is  an  almost  priestly  dignity  attached  to  the  office  of  the 
cook  and  houseworker — a  dignity  seldom  appreciated  by  the 
bourgeoisie.  See  what  alchemic  changes  can  be  wrought  in 
the  produce  of  the  butcher  or  greengrocer,  turning  the  fruits 
of  the  earth  into  the  fruits  of  the  mind!  So  you  will  have 
complete  province  over  the  ordering  of  our  domestic  habits. 
You,  in  fact,  will  be  the  home  maker,  while  I  will  be  tha 
home  sustainer." 

"Well,  as  I  understand  it,"  upspoke  Hortense,  "you  want 
a  girl  who  can  live  with  you,  sort  of  like  one  of  the  family, 
and  run  things  while  you're  away  at  the  office." 

"That  is  very  well  put,  in  its  way,"  conceded  the  lecturer. 
Apparently  she  guessed  that  her  caller  was  awaiting  other 
particulars,  for  she  explained:  "And  about  the  arrange 
ments.  Among  our  emancipated  thinkers,  you  know,  we 
have  tried,  so  far  as  is  practical  under  the  capitalistic  sys 
tem,  to  do  away  with  the  clumsy  monetary  exchange  which 
has  done  so  much  to  ruin  this  beautiful  world.  As  an  equal- 


260  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

sharing  partner  in  our  home  you  will  receive  exactly  what 
I  receive  therefrom :  attractive  sleeping  quarters,  nourishing 
food,  pleasing  surroundings,  adequate  clothing,  and  com 
panionship  with  the  finest  minds  in  the  world  of  modern 
thought." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  go  right  to  work  ?"  Hortense  asked 
breathlessly. 

"What  was  that  ?"  It  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Cull's  larger 
vision  had  already  reverted  to  its  problems. 

"Do  you  want  me  right  away?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes !    To  be  sure !" 

Scarcely  looking  up,  Mrs.  Cull  reached  into  a  small 
drawer,  and  with  one  motion  of  the  hand  brought  out  a  key 
to  which  a  card  had  been  attached  by  means  of  a  pale  pink 
ribbon. 

"The  address  is  on  the  card,"  Hortense  heard  her  telling 
the  typewritten  manuscript.  "We  dine  at  seven.  I  think 
you'll  find  a  list  of  tradesmen  in  the  frame  by  the  telephone. 
Better  lay  places  for  two  extra,  as  Comrade  Elsa  and  Com 
rade  Larry  may  come  in.  Excuse  me,  won't  you?" 

In  the  outer  office  Hortense  looked  upon  Comrade  Elsa 
with  eyes  of  a  new  reverence ;  she  must  be  one  of  the  Finest 
Minds.  Hortense  wondered  if,  now  that  she  was  in  the 
circle,  she  hadn't  better  smile  and  say  "Good  morning, 
comrade !"  as  Comrade  Larry  had  done.  But  Comrade  Elsa, 
who  was  now  busily  beating  a  typewriter,  never  looked  up. 

ii 

And  that  is  how  in  the  course  of  an  hour  Miss  Hor 
tense  Troutt  moved  across  the  border  of  Philistia  and 
took  a  flat  in  Utopia.  She  found  that  Mrs.  Cull  occu 
pied  the  top  floor  of  a  three-storied  house  within  short 
pistol  range  of  Gramercy  Park;  the  floor  was  sublet,  she 
later  found  out,  by  a  young  lawyer  named  Green,  whose 
plump  little  wife,  two  well-nurtured  children  and  economical 
town  car  combined  to  proclaim  him  and  his  tribe  as  boor 


FREE  261 

joysey  in  the  extreme.  The  Greens  occupied  the  two  floors 
below,  kept  fairly  good  hours  and  enjoyed  only  a  dumb 
waiter  speaking  acquaintance  with  the  comrades  in  the  upper 
realm. 

On  the  morning  of  her  first  enchantment  Hortense  found 
the  keyhole  of  the  third-floor  apartment  and  walked  tim 
orously  into  the  strange  life.  Her  impression  of  the  big 
room  which  first  she  entered  was  that  Comrade  Harriet  had 
been  dry  cleaning  and  had  pinned  innumerable  fragments 
of  Chines-e  and  Japanese  clothing  to  the  wall  in  order  that 
they  might  retain  their  intended  shape.  This  theory  was 
abandoned,  however,  when  upon  closer  inspection  she  found 
that  the  embroideries  were  quite  dusty  and  that  some  of  them 
served  as  backgrounds  for  the  curiously  splashy  pictures  of 
which  Comrade  Harriet  had  a  great  many.  On  the  marble 
mantel,  directly  under  the  enlarged  photograph  of  revolu 
tionary  corpses  lying  before  the  gates  of  Tsarskoe  Selo,  a 
baker's  dozen  of  froth-streaked  glasses  sat  in  gloomy  con 
ference  as  though  last  night's  discussion  had  seriously  dis 
agreed  with  them. 

Hortense  raised  the  shades  and  threw  open  the  big 
windows.  She  was  sure  she  had  never  before  seen  such  a 
variety  of  cigarette  butts.  Hand-rolled,  machine-rolled, 
white,  yellow,  brown,  black,  a  mangled  army  of  them  clut 
tered  the  fireplace,  piano,  bookshelves,  table.  Cigarette 
papers  lay  strewn  like  autumn  leaves  along  the  rug  over  a 
sifting  of  fine-chopped  tobacco. 

Comrade  Harriet  had  no  doubt  spoken  true  when  she  had 
confessed  that  the  pursuit  of  large  problems  had  unsuited 
her  for  home-making.  Hortense  approached  the  priestly 
dignity  of  the  kitchen  and  found  an  expanse  of  that  dreary 
yellow  woodwork  once  fashionable  for  service  quarters.  A 
family  of  resident  cockroaches  scrambled  over  mountains 
of  greasy  tinware,  which  lay  about  like  wreckage  in  the  wake 
of  a  defeated  army.  The  sink  was  overflowing  with  crum 
pled  napkins  of  Japanese  crepe,  and  on  the  draining 
board  tottered  a  soiled  stack  of  those  cardboard  plates  which 


262  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

one  associates  with  pie-serving  at  country  barbecues.  The 
gas  range  was  a  pyre  of  meaty  sacrifices.  As  home  maker 
there  was  no  doubt  that  Hortense  had  her  work  cut  out  for 
her. 

Behind  a  door  she  found  an  all-enveloping  garment  of 
calico,  and  with  this  on  and  her  sleeves  tucked  back  she  set 
to  work,  beginning  at  the  front  of  the  apartment  and  pro 
gressing  slowly  toward  the  back.  The  homely  effort  of 
wiping  down  neglected  shelves,  mobilising  cigarette  stubs, 
carpet-sweeping  the  vast  grey  surfaces  of  the  studio  room, 
wrought  in  her  a  very  fury  of  exaltation.  Back  in  Rock- 
mock  she  had  never  liked  housework ;  but  here  there  was  a 
difference  which  brought  charm.  She  might  work  twice 
as  hard  as  ever  she  had  worked  in  her  life ;  every  swish  of 
the  dusting  rag  was  a  blow  for  freedom.  Comrade,  co- 
worker,  partner! 

Powered  by  such  thoughts,  she  plunged  through  the  sur 
rounding  rubbish  like  a  ship  in  a  high  sea — like  some  won 
derfully  contrived  ship,  designed  to  head  through  a  storm 
and  leave  orderly  calm  behind.  By  noon  she  had  polished, 
swept  and  tidied  the  big  room  until  it  looked  all  but  com 
fortable.  Then  she  had  rung  up  a  hurry  call  to  one  Cosimo 
Pelligrino,  grocer,  green,  wet  and  dry.  By  the  same  means 
she  had  notified  the  butcher;  and  in  a  pause  she  had  tele 
phoned  Mrs.  Kelley,  who,  as  it  proved,  had  been  in  corre 
spondence  with  Lulu  McCabe  and  was  overjoyed  at  the 
chance  to  take  over  the  Thirty-second  Street  apartment. 

It  was  all  like  a  dream  to  Hortense.  Out  of  the  dull 
ledger  of  the  commonplace  she  had  stepped  into  a  picture 
book:  a  poetically  written,  wonderfully  illustrated  picture 
book  whose  pages,  if  somewhat  rumpled  now,  could  be 
smoothed  out  by  her  hand. 

She  lunched  on  the  nub  end  of  a  loaf  which  she  found  in 
the  bread  box.  Staring  at  her  from  the  pantry  shelves  she 
beheld  stack  after  stack  of  new  paper  plates,  bale  after  bale 
of  fresh  crepe  napkins ;  and  in  these  she  admired  the  wisdom 
of  the  emancipated  who  had  no  time  for  scraping  china  or 


FREE  263 


scrubbing  linen.  She  was  just  finishing  with  the  pots  and 
pans  when  Cosimo  Pelligrino  sent  over  a  fat  Italian  boy 
with  a  laden  market  basket.  He  was  Cosimo's  son,  it  turned 
out,  and  though  obviously  unemancipated  he  seemed  eager  to 
fraternise.  Indeed  he  lost  no  time  in  interviewing  Hortense 
on  the  subject  of  her  aims  and  aspirations,  with  a  view  to 
proving,  as  he  confessed,  that  some  likes  one  lady  and  some 
another. 

"Do  Mis'  Cull  need-a  some  more  rad-ennk  wine  ?"  he  in 
quired  at  last;  and  in  answer  to  his  own  question  leaned 
under  the  stationary  washtub  and  brought  out  a  demijohn, 
which  he  shook  close  to  his  ear  before  restoring  it  to  its 
place  of  hiding. 

"Plenta  for  one  more  time,"  he  decreed,  then  looped  the 
handle  of  his  basket  so  high  on  his  biceps  that  the  edge  was 
level  with  his  shoulder.  "Lasta  girl  Mis'  Cull  had  was  a 
Swede.  She  verra  good  girl  named  Heeld.  She  go  craza." 

Hortense  would  have  loved  a  more  detailed  account  of 
the  Craza  Heeld,  but  young  Cosimo  departed  as  though  in 
the  wake  of  that  demented  spirit.  In  one  disturbing  flash 
Hortense  wondered  if  her  forerunner  had  entered  the  Cull 
household  on  the  basis  of  equal  participation;  but  the  day 
was  all  too  short  for  psychopathic  speculations,  and  Mrs. 
Cull's  new  partner  was  already  searching  her  mind  for  a 
few  of  her  aunt's  standard  boarding-house  recipes.  She 
worked  it  out  finally  from  veal  cutlets  to  rice  pudding.  This 
ought  to  sustain  the  Finest  Minds  for  another  night,  she 
thought,  then  went  forth  to  explore  the  bedrooms. 

There  stood  off  the  kitchen  a  little  dark  alcove,  once  no 
doubt  the  lurking  place  of  the  Craza.  Heeld.  Here  she  found 
a  spirit  cabinet  which  had  once  held  clothes  and  behind 
whose  horridly  striped  calico  curtains  there  remained  a  leaky 
pair  of  overshoes  and  an  empty  flask  fancifully  labelled  Old 
Comfort  Gin.  The  bed,  which  was  of  iron,  was  as  hard  and 
narrow  as  any  nun's  could  ever  hope  to  be.  Beside  the  yel 
low  oak  bureau  a  wonderfully  glazed  brewery  calendar  dis 
played  a  pampered  beauty  clad  in  the  style  of  1898  and 


264  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

drinking  beer  alone  under  an  exotic  linden.  The  priestly 
dignity  of  Craza  Heeld's  office  had  not  included  clean  sheets, 
obviously;  and  the  search  brought  Hortense  to  Mrs.  Cull's 
bedroom  across  the  studio. 

This  chamber  was  not  without  charm,  if  you  discount  the 
Russian  Messiah  with  the  middy  blouse,  who  stood  framed 
at  the  head  of  Mrs.  Cull's  four-poster.  This  photograph 
was  autographed  with  a  signature  which  looked  ever  so 
much  as  though  its  owner  had  taken  a  pen  in  his  left  hand 
and  written  his  name  backward.  Hortense  reflected  that  it 
would  do  no  harm  to  take  down,  wash  and  press  the  pretty 
chintz  curtains ;  but  the  floor  was  comparatively  well  pol 
ished,  the  woodwork  comparatively  white,  and  Mrs.  Cull 
had  chosen  for  her  art  intimates  some  landscapes  that  were 
comparatively  sane.  In  digging  her  knuckles  into  the  tufted 
mattress  it  was  impossible  for  Hortense  to  refrain  from  the 
thought  that  the  thinking  end  of  this  establishment  might  be 
a  trifle  fussy  in  the  matter  of  sleeping  luxuries.  That  the 
reflection  brought  no  sting  was  but  another  tribute  to  Mrs. 
Cull's  ability  to  hypnotise  at  a  distance. 

It  was  a  radiant  moment  for  Hortense  when  Comrade 
Harriet,  coming  home  with  her  associates  that  evening,  put 
a  protective  arm  round  the  girl's  slim  waist  and  led  her 
before  her  guests. 

"Comrades,"  said  she,  "this  is  Hortense.  She  has  vol 
untarily  abandoned  the  bourgeoisie  to  fight  for  us." 

Despite  the  fact  that  this  was  all  said  in  the  tone  of 
a  missionary  who  exhibits  a  Papuan  child  recently  rescued 
from  the  tribal  bake  ovens,  Hortense  was  so  overwhelmed 
with  love  and  adoration  for  her  kind  deliverer  that  she 
could  have  fallen  to  her  knees  and  touched  the  hem  of  that 
peculiar  baggy  walking  skirt. 

Comrade  Elsa  twisted  her  watery  face  into  the  approxi 
mation  of  a  smile  and  said  something  with  comrade  at  the 
end  of  it  as  she  thrust  forth  a  clammy  flipper;  but  Hortense 
admitted  she  was  thrilled  when  the  Harvard  tramp  took  her 
hand  almost  hurtfully  in  his  warm  broad  palm. 


FREE  265 

"Shake,  sister !"  said  he.  "You  can't  keep  the  good  guys 
off  our  dump !" 

This  rough-hewn  speech  was  delivered  with  the  broad  a 
fashionable  in  Cambridge,  and  sounded  the  keynote  of  his 
character.  For  the  patois  of  the  dusty  road  was  to  Larry 
Hoden  just  as  much  an  acquired  trait  as  were  the  soiled  blue 
suit  and  hobgoblin  shoes  which  rather  set  off  than  detracted 
from  his  cultivated  appearance.  It  was  as  though  an  actor, 
nicely  shaved  and  bathed  in  scented  soap,  had  temporarily 
disguised  himself  as  a  tramp. 

They  were  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion.  Hortense  had 
yet  to  learn  that  discussion  with  these  people  was  synony 
mous  with  social  intercourse.  Heaven  to  Harriet  Pebbles 
Cull  was  an  extensive  place  where  a  multitude  of  souls  could 
sit  through  the  aeons  defining  their  various  attitudes.  Com 
rade  Harriet  especially  relished  discussion  because,  after 
picking  her  own  crowd,  she  usually  managed  to  monopolise 
the  floor. 

To-night  while  dinner  cooled  they  were  right  in  the  midst 
of  one.  Two  or  three  times  Hortense  was  on  the  point  of 
suggesting  that  they  sit  down  while  the  soup — a  last-minute 
inspiration  out  of  a  can — was  still  hot.  But  it  seemed  there 
had  been  a  protest  on  the  part  of  somebody  somewhere  in 
Wisconsin,  and  the  three  Finest  Minds  were  going  at  it 
from  three  different  angles.  Comrade  Larry  accused  Com 
rade  Harriet  of  being  an  Opportunist,  which  caused  Harriet 
to  flush  and  discover  that  Larry  was  a  Decembrist ;  and  in 
the  midst  of  a  general  engagement  Comrade  Elsa  opined 
that  as  a  Fabian  she  would  hang  them  both.  Larry  wanted 
to  know  how  Elsa  could  be  both  a  Fabian  and  a  Maximalist, 
and  it  was  in  the  heat  of  analysis  that  Comrade  Harriet  sud 
denly  turned  upon  her  unshackled  partner — who  was 
crouched  in  a  corner  wondering  which  of  these  heads,  if 
any,  she  would  come  under — and  inquired :  "When  will  we 
have  dinner,  comrade?" 

"It  has  been  waiting  twenty  minutes,"  retorted  Hortense, 
a  trifle  hurt. 


266  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Oh,  so  it  has,"  replied  the  home  sustainer,  twirling  her 
glasses  on  the  end  of  their  black  cord  and  making  no  move 
to  rise.  Larry,  it  seemed,  had  discovered  something  called 
Chauvinism,  which  was  the  worst  yet. 

They  agreed  on  this  at  last  and  all  advanced  upon  the 
table,  which  Hortense  had  set  as  daintily  as  cardboard  plates 
and  paper  napkins  could  make  it.  Before  sitting  down  Mrs. 
Cull  focused  her  absent-minded  eyes  and  said :  "My  dear, 
not  cocktail  glasses  for  claret !" 

"Oh!" 

Hortense  scurried  toward  the  kitchen.  She  could  feel  the 
blushes,  redder  than  Cosimo's  demijohned  beverage.  She 
brought  back  goblets  and  Comrade  Harriet  wasted  but  the 
fraction  of  a  glance  upon  the  home  maker  ere  returning  to 
the  really  weighty  problem  of  wage-slavery  among  the  creo 
sote  workers.  Lingering  in  the  stuffy  kitchen  during  the 
process  of  pouring  claret  into  a  carafe,  the  girl  resolved  to 
ask  her  partner  for  some  easy  books  that  would  tell  her 
all  about  these  great  questions.  Once  included  in  the  debate, 
she  thought,  the  illusion  of  freedom  would  be  perfect  in 
deed. 

Nobody  commented  on  her  dinner,  save  once  when  Com 
rade  Harriet  called  for  more  oil  on  her  salad  and  twice 
when  Comrade  Larry  requested  another  large  helping  of 
veal  cutlets.  All  during  the  meal  the  Finest  Minds  stuck 
to  their  favourite  brands  of  cigarettes,  which  may  be  super 
ficially  described  as  white,  yellow  and  brown.  After  dinner 
they  moved  their  debate  to  the  far  end  of  the  studio,  where 
Mrs.  Cull,  stretching  herself  at  length  on  a  chaise  tongue, 
got  complete  control  of  the  caucus,  going  on  and  on  and  on 
in  one  unbroken  editorial,  full  of  mighty  adjectives  and  en 
tirely  lacking  in  paragraphs. 

From  the  kitchen,  where  Hortense  worked  long  and  faith 
fully  tidying  things  for  the  night,  as  Aunt  Hen  had  taught 
her  to  do,  she  caught  the  cadence  of  those  beautiful  periods 
without  being  troubled  by  their  meaning.  From  this  far 
vantage  she  enjoyed  the  dream  of  being  at  one  with  these 


FREE  267 

mighty  souls.  At  last  she  heard  the  lecturer  pause,  clear 
her  throat  and  call  her  name. 

"Hortense,"  she  suggested  when  her  partner  appeared, 
"will  you  please  bring  me  a  glass  of  water?  And  open 
some  of  the  windows.  It's  fearfully  stuffy.  Comrade 
Larry,  how  would  you  define  group  consciousness?" 

The  tired  girl  must  have  fallen  asleep  on  a  divan  at  the 
outer  edge  of  the  discussion,  for  when  she  opened  her  hazy 
eyes  she  was  aware  of  a  deep,  pleasant  voice  in  her  ear. 
Comrade  Larry  was  leaning  over  her,  and  the  sight  caused 
her  to  leap  hastily  to  her  feet. 

"Que  linda!"  he  chuckkd.  "That's  what  they  say  in 
Guatemala  when  they  find  the  Sleeping  Beauty  pounding  her 
ear." 

She  was  refreshed  to  see  that  his  eyes  were  clear  and 
much  more  humorous  than  those  which  beamed  from  the 
other  Finest  Minds. 

"I'm  afraid  we  haven't  given  you  a  chance  to  define  your 
attitude,"  he  was  going  on.  "We're  a  noisy  lot  of  bindle- 
stiffs  when  we  get  into  action." 

"I — I  was  all  tired  out,  I  guess,"  she  faltered,  not  dis 
pleased  by  his  confidential  attitude.  She  could  see  Comrades 
Harriet  and  Elsa  browsing  over  a  pile  of  drawings  in  the 
big  bedroom. 

"Masterly  inaction,"  came  the  smile  of  the  rather  too 
small  mouth.  "I  suspect  you  of  being  a  Fabian — aren't 
you?" 

"Honestly,  I  don't  know  what  I  am,"  confessed  the  novice. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,  comrade."  He  gave  one  quick 
glance  toward  the  bedroom  before  resuming.  "If  you'll 
come  and  sit  with  me  in  Washington  Square  to-morrow 
afternoon  I'll  help  you  clarify  your  attitude." 

It's  just  the  way  young  men  act  when  they  want  to  teach 
you  to  swim,  she  thought,  and  was  pleased  again. 

"That  will  be  ever  so  kind  of  you,"  she  said  in  her 
politest  tone.  A  little  of  the  Rockinock  snobbery  lingered 
and  she  found  herself  wishing  he  would  sponge  his  suit 


263  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

and  shine  his  shoes.  Back  in  Rockinock  even  the  roughest 
young  men  took  pains  with  such  particulars  before  going 
out  with  the  girls. 

"I'm  not  sure  whether  Mrs.  Cull — Comrade  Harriet  will 
let  me,"  she  qualified,  and  earned  his  guffaw. 

"Can  that  bunk!  There's  no  such  thing  as  Let  Me  in 
our  philosophy.  Our  restraints  are  our  inclinations,  nothing 
more.  Of  course,  if  your  inclination  forbids  your  sitting 
in  the  square  and  learning  how  to  clarify  your  attitude — 
why,  very  well.  Freedom  of  choice  is  our  watchword." 

He  flushed  slightly  and  turned  half  away.  The  other 
comrades  were  now  emerging  from  the  bedroom. 

"At  what  time  ?"  asked  Hortense  breathlessly. 

"Half-past  one,"  replied  the  Finest  Mind,  speaking  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  mouth  quite  as  furtively  as  Sauljer  might 
have  done  when  Papa  was  threatening.  Then  he  joined  the 
others  hastily  with  a  feeling  comment  on  the  Civic  Forum 
and  the  pernicious  anti-tea-room  statute.  Hortense  per 
mitted  her  hand  to  linger  in  his  as  he  departed,  giving  her  a 
conspiratorial  smile.  She  had  a  feeling  of  taking  her  first 
step  out  of  the  novitiate  into  the  priesthood. 

"And  how  do  you  like  us  by  now?" 

It  was  Comrade  Harriet  who  thus  inquired  as  with  all  the 
caution  of  a  landed  proprietress  she  bolted  the  studio  door 
for  the  night. 

"I  think  you're  splendid !"    What  else  could  she  say  ? 

By  way  of  good  night  Comrade  Harriet  planted  a  cool 
kiss  upon  the  unworthy  forehead  and  said :  "You  mustn't 
permit  any  of  the  old  chains  to  dangle — the  intellectual 
chains  and  prejudices.  You  must  cast  aside  slave-thinking 
and  be  free  as  we  all  are.  Slavery  is  a  habit  of  the  mind — 
see  how  often  a  convict,  released  from  unjust  imprisonment, 
longs  again  for  his  cell.  Remember  the  wide  spaces,  the 
upper  air — be  free !" 

"Yes,  Comrade  Harriet,"  said  the  meek  disciple. 

"Then  to  bed,  my  dear."    The  voice  of  Harriet  Pebbles 


FREE  269 

Cull  was  like  that  of  a  singing  seraph.  "And  don't  forget 
that  freedom  of  choice  is  the  very  essence  of  our  belief." 

"Yes — I  won't,"  she  promised  somewhat  sleepily. 

It  reminded  her  of  what  Larry  the  tramp  had  just  said 
in  that  furtive  aside.  She  was  on  the  point  of  taking  Com 
rade  Harriet  into  her  confidence  in  the  matter  of  that 
Washington  Square  rendezvous  of  the  morrow;  then  she 
remembered  that  there  were  no  chaperons  in  Utopia,  so  she 
held  her  peace. 

"You  are  doing  very  well,"  Mrs.  Cull  allowed  herself  as 
she  stood  removing  the  pins  from  her  back  hair.  "I  think 
the  soup  was  a  trifle  cool,  but  you  will  learn.  I  always 
have  chocolate,  a  hot  roll  and  a  four-minute  egg  brought 
to  my  room  at  eight  o'clock.  And  oh,  yes !"  She  walked  rap 
idly  across  the  studio  to  a  battered  Italian  desk.  "Here  are 
some  revised  chapters  of  my  new  book  which  I  must  have 
typed  before  the  end  of  the  week.  There  is  a  new  machine  in 
its  case  under  my  bed.  I  wonder  if  you'd  mind,  in  your  odd 
moments " 

"Oh,  will  you  let  me?"  So,  after  all,  her  training  as  a 
typist,  stenographer  and  business  secretary  would  bring  her 
in  closer  link  with  the  cause. 

"I  knew  you  wouldn't  mind.    Good  night,  comrade !" 

And  the  heavy  door  at  last  slammed  on  the  studio. 

in 

A  week  later  found  a  curiously  revised  Hortense  Troutt 
dusting,  ironing,  sweeping  and  cooking  between  spells  of 
typing  a  manuscript  which  was  obscurely  annotated  and 
entirely  composed  of  hard  words.  But  in  all  this  flurry  she 
was  not  too  busy  to  think  almost  constantly  of  Larry  Hoden. 
In  that  first  Washington  Square  meeting  he  had,  by  way  of 
clarifying  her  attitude,  proposed  marriage  to  her. 

That  had  been  an  act  of  splendid  renunciation  on  his 
part  because,  as  he  had  taken  time  to  explain  to  her,  he 
didn't  believe  in  marriage  as  an  institution.  But  as  a  con- 


270  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

cession  to  her  bourgeois  upbringing  he  was  willing  to  appear 
before  a  capitalistic  marriage-license  bureau,  sign  his  name 
to  a  contract,  and  if  necessary  submit  himself  to  the  rites 
of  a  priest,  rabbi,  rector,  preacher  or  Christian  Science  prac 
titioner.  In  his  dusty  garments  and  scraggly  haircut  he  had 
appeared  to  her  like  some  love-inspired  young  prophet  as 
he  had  made  his  self-submerging  proposal.  She  was  sure 
he  had  a  broader  vision  and  finer  spirit  than  any  young 
man  she  had  ever  met — and  yet 

Back  in  Rockinock  there  had  been  a  different  way  of 
looking  at  essentials.  Aunt  Hen  had  always  referred  to  the 
institution  of  marriage  as  the  Holy  Bond  of  Wedlock,  de 
spite  the  fact  that  Uncle  James  had  been  far  from  sanctified 
in  his  behaviour  and  had  died  of  lockjaw  superinduced 
by  tearing  his  foot  on  a  rusty  screen  door  which  he  had 
kicked  while  in  a  state  of  rage  and  sin.  But  Hortense  had 
always  associated  weddings  with  Mendelssohn,  roses,  or 
gandies  and  a  ritual  of  holy  joy.  She  remembered  how 
Aunt  Hen  had  always  given  prominent  place  among  the 
hundred  horrible  examples  to  a  certain  wanton  jade  who 
had  refused  to  say  "I  will"  when  the  Reverend  Mr.  Potts 
had  asked  the  promise  to  obey. 

What  was  Hortense  to  think  of  a  man  who  made  no  choice 
between  priests,  rabbis,  rectors,  preachers  and  Christian 
Science  practitioners? 

She  thought  of  him  a  great  deal.  She  didn't  count  it 
strange  that  he  should  have  proposed  to  her  upon  their 
first  meeting  alone.  She  thought  that  love  ought  to  come 
that  way — suddenly,  like  a  stroke  of  lightning  or  a  bad 
attack  of  influenza.  How  much  more  noble,  worthy  and 
temperamental  was  this  Finest  Mind's  wooing  than  the 
calculated  advances  of  poor  Sauljer,  now  fortunately  for 
gotten. 

Such  thoughts  had  sustained  Hortense  during  this  week; 
for  she  could  not  conceal  even  from  her  rosy  illusions  that 
she  was  working  pretty  hard.  If  her  broad-minded  and 
equal-sharing  partner  would  only  get  into  the  habit  of  rising 


FREE  271 

for  breakfast  or  of  picking  up  after  herself  things  would 
simplify  no  doubt.  As  it  was  Hortense  must  be  up  be 
fore  seven  each  morning,  and  the  entertainment  of  assorted 
Finest  Minds  every  night  kept  her  busy  until  a  late  hour. 
Several  hundred  pages  of  her  typewriting  had  come  out 
wrong;  the  light  in  the  studio  wasn't  very  good,  and  she 
was  suffering  a  great  deal  from  headaches — eyestrain  and 
lack  of  sleep. 

But  in  the  first  pause  of  early  afternoon,  when  her 
strength  was  beginning  to  fail,  a  little  ring  at  the  studio 
door  always  brought  the  roses  back  along  the  road  to  Ar- 
cady.  To-day  as  she  awaited  his  visit  she  thought  that  she 
had  got  over  wishing  that  he  would  dress  up  in  her  honour ; 
in  fact,  Hortense  herself  had  taken  to  wearing  one  of  Mrs. 
Cull's  greenish  creations  which,  though  it  gave  to  her  the 
effect  of  a  velvet  bag  tied  round  with  a  candy  ribbon,  yet 
also  imparted  the  chaste  satisfaction  that  a  Trappist  brother 
must  feel  when  first  he  dons  the  gaberdine  of  his  order. 

Comrade  Harriet,  too,  had  taught  her  disciple  how  to  do 
her  hair  in  such  a  way  as  to  take  all  the  wave  out  of  it 
and  cause  it  to  fall  in  loose,  irregular  avalanches  round  her 
face. 

And  sure  enough,  on  this  afternoon  a  week  or  so  after 
her  entrance  into  freedom,  the  hour  of  two  brought  Larry 
Hoden's  familiar  double  ring;  he  was  fairly  regular  in  his 
calls,  if  Larry  Hoden  could  be  said  to  be  fairly  regular 
in  anything. 

As  Hortense  had  her  hand  on  the  knob  to  open  the  door 
she  had  a  vision  of  how  he  would  look  in  a  brand-new 
suit  with  a  becoming  tie  and  stiff  collar.  At  what  an  in 
opportune  moment  this  idea  had  clamoured  for  entertain 
ment  !  For  the  appearance  of  the  materialised  Hoden  was 
dramatic  by  contrast.  A  diagonal  trail  of  dust  ran  from  his 
right  shoulder  to  the  second  button  of  his  waistcoat — or  to 
the  place  where  the  second  button  had  been  before  its  last 
thread  had  broken  from  anchorage.  His  dark  hair  seemed 
Medusalike  in  its  unbarbered  riot,  and  the  hand  which  he 


272  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

raised  in  the  act  of  removing  his  shapeless  cap  was  as 
dingy  as  though  it  had  been  shovelling  coal.  Which  the 
hand  of  Larry  Hoden  would  never  do  if  it  could  help  it. 

"Howdy,  comrade !"  cheerily  he  bade  her,  his  handsome 
eyes  sparkling  as  he  presented  a  hand  which  for  the  first 
time  she  was  loath  to  press. 

"Oh,  Larry!" 

It  was  a  poor  speech  in  this  wordy  atmosphere,  but  it 
must  have  had  its  effect,  for  he  relinquished  his  hold  and 
asked :  "What's  eating  you  now,  comrade  ?" 

"Nothing !"    Some  more  of  her  eloquent  inadequacy. 

"Come  off!  Your  attitude  is  Fabian.  Fabians  never  get 
married,  you  know;  because  their  masterly  inactivity  for 
bids  it." 

"I  think  I'm  tired." 

"Bully!"  he  rejoiced.  "What  you  need  is  a  change  of 
work.  One  of  the  most  disgusting  aspects  of  capitalistic 
slavery  is  its  horrible  permanence.  Hell  is  a  place  where 
people  have  to  stick  to  one  job  forever.  We  Maximalists 
hate  monotony.  Change  of  work,  change  of  environment, 
change  of  government — that's  our  creed.  Come  on,  Hor- 
tense — put  on  your  hat  and  follow  me." 

"Where?"  She  took  him  seriously  and  was  now  quite 
breathless. 

"First  to  the  bourgeois  headquarters  where  they  deal 
in  marriage  licenses.  Then  to  one  of  those  gospel  hucksters 
who  will  say  a  few  lines  of  vers  libre  and  declare  us  man 
and  wife." 

"Larry,  I  don't  like  the  way  you  speak  about  clergymen," 
she  declared,  lengthening  her  upper  lip.  She  was  deter 
mined  that  this  should  be  the  point  of  departure. 

"Holy  alkali !"  swore  the  Harvard  tramp.  "How  like  a 
birthmark  our  prejudice  clings !"  He  thrust  his  dirty  hands 
deep  into  his  baggy  trousers  and  took  a  few  paces  up  and 
down  before  he  again  faced  her.  "Hortense,  my  dear  girl — 
I'm  desperately  in  love  with  you.  You  believe  that,  don't 
you?" 


FREE  273 

"Y-yes."    She  admitted  even  this  with  a  reservation. 

"You've  got  to  believe  it!  If  I  weren't  mad  about  you 
I  shouldn't  consider  making  these — these  humiliating  con 
cessions  to  your  prejudice.  You  say  you  want  me  to  con 
sider  your  religion.  Have  I  asked  you  to  consider  mine?" 

"I  am  perfectly  willing  that  a  clergyman  of  your  religion 
should  marry  us,"  she  decreed. 

"Bunk !     My  religion  doesn't  include  clergymen." 

"Then  it  isn't  a  religion,"  she  informed  him  in  true 
Rockinock  form. 

"My  Lord,  if  I  weren't  demented  I  should  give  you  up, 
send  you  back  to  the  bourgeoisie." 

"Of  course,  you  might " 

"Look  here,  Hortense!  Pick  your  preacher.  If  your 
so-called  religion  demands  that  I  be  married  on  a  pile  of 
fagots  and  burned  afterward  like  a  Hindu  widow,  I'm 
game." 

His  tone  was  light,  but  there  was  a  touch  of  temper  in 
the  florid  face  as  he  stood  sifting  fine-chopped  tobacco  into 
a  brown  paper. 

"Let's  sit  down,"  she  suggested.  She  was  terribly  sorry 
that  she  had  hurt  him ;  but  now  or  never,  she  thought,  was 
the  time  to  speak.  Indeed,  she  had  a  programme  of  her  own. 

"I  think  you're  wonderful."  She  began  with  the  sweet 
end  first.  "I  think  you're  a  great  genius  with  awfully — • 
awfully  grand  ideas  about  everything.  You're  the  finest 
mind  I  ever  saw.  But  if  you're  going  to  marry  me  I  want 
you  to  understand  it's  a  holy  bond " 

"Aw !" 

He  groaned  and  covered  his  face  with  his  sooty  hands. 
She  wasn't  sure  whether  he  was  laughing  or  crying ;  which 
certainly  added  to  the  difficulties  of  her  subsequent  speech. 

"It's  a  terrible  responsibility — I  know,  because  I  watched 
Aunt  Hen  and  Uncle  James.  And  I  don't  think  any  nice 
girl  ought  to  go  into  it  sight  unseen  without  making  the 
gentleman  she  is  going  to  marry  sacrifice  a  few  things — 
just  to  prove  that  he  really  cares." 


274  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"What  would  you  suggest?"  asked  the  voice  behind  the 
hands. 

"In  the  first  place" — here  she  bit  her  lip,  realising  the 
impiety  of  her  forthcoming  request — "I  think  you  ought  to 
slick  up  a  little.  You  know.  Get  a  new  suit  of  clothes 
and  necktie  and  things." 

"I  see.  Array  myself  like,  the  peasant  bridegroom  of  the 
Balkans."  This  came  through  his  dirty  fingers. 

"Something  like  that,"  she  responded.  "The  clothes  you 
have  are  very  nice  to  wear  when  you're  speaking  at 
rallies  and  everything.  When  we're  married  you  can 
keep  them  to  put  on  when  you  go  out  among  the  propa 
ganda" — she  wasn't  at  all  sure  she  had  got  this  word  right, 
but  she  continued  full  steam  ahead — "and — and  you  must 
trim  your  hair,  and  manicure  and — and  sort  of  spruce  up." 

"Wash?"     He  put  it  monosyllabically. 

"Well,"  came  her  oblique  attack,  "you've  sort  of  got  to 
stop  being  a  genius  when  you're  a  husband." 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  asking  me  to  do?"  He 
lowered  his  hands  suddenly  and  faced  her.  "You're  com 
manding  me  to  betray  my  class  and  put  on  the  livery  of 
capitalism !" 

"Most  capitalists  are  very  nice  dressers,"  she  persisted. 

"Anything  else  you  require?"  he  asked,  coming  back 
to  his  amused  smile. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  countered  promptly.  "If  we're  going  to 
get  married  of  course  we'll  have  to  have  a  place  to  live; 
and  that  means  paying  the  grocer  and  landlord  and  hiring 
a  girl  to  do  the  housework " 

"A  girl  to  do  the  housework?"  he  echoed. 

"Certainly.  It's  all  right  to  get  along  this  way" — she 
pointed  her  little  nose  round  the  studio  room  to  indicate 
where  "this  way"  lay — "but  if  you  and  I  got  married  on 
that  equal-distribution-of-labour  basis  we'd  find  pretty  quick 
that  it  didn't  work  for  either  of  us.  To  tell  you  the  truth 
I've  been  in  partnership  with  Comrade  Harriet  long  enough 
to  want  to  do  some  bossing  for  myself.  A  Swedish  girl  at 


FREE  275 

thirty  dollars  a  month  would  save  us  money  in  the  long 
run — I'd  see  that  she  did — and  it  would  go  a  long  way 
toward  keeping  us  decent  and  contented " 

"Decent  and  contented!"  He  groaned.  "What  a  fate!" 
Bouncing  to  his  feet  with  more  energy  than  he  usually  dis 
played,  he  set  to  pacing  again. 

"Hortense,"  he  roared  at  last  fiercely,  "if  I  go  to  a  depart 
ment  store  and  rig  myself  out  like  a  penny  clerk  I  shall 
entirely  lose  my  effectiveness  among  the  people  I  have 
chosen  to  lead.  But  if  you  ask  me  to  throw  away  my  dig 
nity  I'll  do  it.  Women  are  an  alien  race."  He  calmed 
down  to  the  analytic  level  as  he  stopped  and  faced  her. 
"Women  are  all  Circes — never  satisfied  until  they've  turned 
men  into  trained  pigs." 

"I  saw  a  woman  at  a  circus  once,"  she  digressed.  "She 
had  a  trained  pig.  He  was  the  cleanest  pig  I  ever  saw." 

But  Larry  Hoden  wasn't  to  be  lured  from  his  obsessing 
theme. 

"By  hickory,  I'm  crazy  about  you  !  I'll  do  all  the  monkey- 
shines  you  ask  if  you'll  marry  me.  I'll  wear  a  frock  coat 
and  a  gardenia  and " 

"Will  you?" 

Utterly  ignoring  his  satire,  she  brought  together  her  en 
raptured  hands,  thinking  how  handsome  he  would  look  in 
a  silk  hat. 

"And  to  resume  your  programme — how  do  you  expect  me 
to  pay  for  these  bourgeois  splendours,  since  your  tastes 
require  them  ?" 

"Well" — she  hesitated,  because  the  forthcoming  state 
ment  seemed  indelicate — "Comrade  Harriet  tells  me  you 
inherited  some  money  from  a  rich  uncle  or  something." 

"Faugh !"  He  smote  his  breast  in  high  disdain.  "An  old 
reactionary  I've  never  seen  was  so  impertinent  as  to  re 
member  me  in  his  will.  It's  a  hundred  and  fifty  a  month — 
we  can't  live  in  capitalistic  splendour  on  that.'* 

"Oh,  yes,  we  can !"  she  spoke  up.  "Everybody  says 
you're  a  real  talented  writer.  If  you  go  to  work  I'm  sure 


276  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

you  can  make  an  extra  hundred  a  month  without  half  try 
ing." 

"I  see.    Sell  myself  to  the  Philistines." 
This  seemed  all  right  to  Hortense,  who  was  unlettered 
in  the  phraseology. 

"Yes,  you  could  do  that,  if  they  paid  well.  Anyhow, 
if  you  only  made  a  hundred  extra  we'd  have  two  hundred 
and  fifty  altogether.  I  can  chase  the  Kelkys  out  of  the 
McCabe  apartment — Mrs.  Kelley  rang  me  up  last  night  and 
said  she  wanted  to  move  again — and  allowing  thirty  a 
month  for  the  general  houseworker  and  forty  for  the  rent 
we'd  have  a  hundred  and  eighty  left  for  living  expenses, 
clothes  and  movies." 

"Will  you  marry  me  this  afternoon?"    He  fairly  spat  the 
proposal  through  his  clenched  teeth. 
"With  a  regular  Baptist  clergyman?" 
"Anything  in  the  world.    Will  you  ?" 
As  he  stood  there,  tall  and  rather  splendid  looking  in  spite 
of  his  abominable  disguise,   she  seemed  to  see  him  in  a 
smooth  greyish  morning  coat  with  braided  edges,  a  spar 
kling  tie  knotted  under  his  winged  collar,  pearl-grey  gloves 
carefully  held  in  his  right  hand.    She  would  insist  on  a  best 
man  too.    She  hoped  Larry  would  pick  out  a  stylish  one — 
she  wondered  if  he  would  mind  if  she  suggested  Sauljer  for 
the  part?    After  all,  Sauljer  was  stylish  and  he  would  look 
wonderful  standing  by  the  altar  holding  a  wedding  ring  by 
proxy.    Hortense,  you  see,  was  bred  in  the  romantic  school. 
"Yes,"  she  said  faintly  at  last,  but  stood  him  off  as  he 
came  toward  her. 

"Please — wait  till  you  get  your  new  clothes  and  things." 
"How  much  money  have  you  got?"  was  Larry  Hoden's 
sudden  query,  confusing  under  the  circumstances. 

"About  thirty-nine   dollars,"   she  acknowledged.     After 
all,  there  should  be  no  secrets  between  them. 

"I'm  a  little  shy  on  kale  until  next  Tuesday,  when  my 

allowance  comes  in.     Suppose  I  make  a  touch  until " 

"Why,  certainly !" 


FREE  277 

The  favour  seemed  light  compared  with  the  concessions 
he  had  made  for  her  against  his  conscience.  She  flew  to 
Craza  Heeld's  room,  rummaged  in  a  wicker  suitcase  and 
found  to  her  delight  that  her  roll  numbered  forty-four 
dollars.  Some  instinct  she  had  inherited  from  the  forest 
woman  prompted  her  to  withhold  five  dollars  when  she  pre 
sented  the  loan  to  her  temperamental  lover. 

"I've  got  a  new  pair  of  kicks  somewhere,"  he  mumbled. 
"This'll  be  enough  for  a  suit,  a  shirt,  a  shave  and  a  marriage 
license.  Happy  days !" 

He  was  swinging  out  of  the  door  when  she  found 
voice  to  call  after  him :  "You're  not  mad  at  me,  are  you, 
Larry?" 

"Mad  ?  Not  at  you  but  about  you,"  he  growled.  "Other 
wise  I  shouldn't  be  violating  my  creed  for  yours." 

He  rumbled  away  and  left  his  sudden  fiancee  torn  be 
tween  triumph  and  misgiving.  Love  of  her  had  caused  a 
prophet  to  tear  up  his  message  and  throw  it  to  the  winds. 
Being  very  feminine,  she  was  charmed  with  the  idea.  But 
she  wondered  if  she  wasn't  killing  something  fine  in  him — 
something  which  would  wash  off,  as  it  were,  and  be  lost 
forever  to  the  world  of  intellect  which  was  his  proper 
realm  ? 

Her  reflections  were  interrupted  by  a  ring  at  the  telephone 
and  the  didactic  tones  of  Harriet  Pebbles  Cull : 

"Comrade  Hortense?" 

"Yes,  Comrade  Harriet." 

"Cosimo  always  has  hot  spaghetti  on  Fridays,"  she  ex 
plained  in  the  coming-out-of-nowhere  manner  which  she 
chose  for  the  conveyance  of  orders.  "Please  have  enough 
for  fourteen  or  fifteen  sent  over.  You  might  make  some  of 
that  nice  chicken  salad  too — or  if  you  haven't  time  get  it  at 
Baumgarten's.  Have  an  extra  gallon  of  claret  and  a  case 
of  light  beer.  There  will  be  fourteen  or  fifteen  instead  of 
eight  as  I  planned." 

"Why — are  we  giving  a  party?"  asked  the  astonished 
slave  of  freedom. 


278  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you  this  morning?  I  thought  I  did. 
The  leaders  of  the  Button  Moulders'  Committee  are  coming 
in  for  a  buffet  supper  at  eight.  Then  there'll  be  Adam 
Whaile,  the  novelist,  you  know,  and  his  wife — and  I  have 
the  greatest  good  news  for  the  cause.  We  have  a  convert 
from  the  capitalistic  class " 

"My  goodness !"  interrupted  the  disciple.  "This  is  an 
awful  time  to  order  a  dinner  for  fifteen  people." 

"My  dear!"  The  wire  seemed  to  quiver  with  the  shock. 
"Am  I  taxing  you  beyond  your  ability?" 

"Excuse  me — I  was  just  a  little  surprised,  that  was  all. 
I'll  see  to  everything.  Don't  worry." 

Hortense  could  have  kicked  herself.  Mrs.  Cull  always 
did  have  a  way  of  ascending  in  her  intellectual  balloon 
and  dropping  ballast  on  her  opponent.  Somehow  or  other 
she  hadn't  given  Hortense  a  chance  to  explain  that  ere  eight 
o'clock  to-night  she  would  be  Mrs.  Larry  Hoden.  At  that 
very  instant  she  was  wondering  if  after  marriage  it  wouldn't 
be  more  dignified  to  call  him  Lawrence. 

She  had  just  finished  ordering  lakes  of  red  wine,  moun 
tains  of  French  bread,  armies  of  beer  bottles,  wriggling 
colonies  of  spaghetti  from  Cosimo's  abundant  store,  and 
was  counting  the  number  of  cardboard  plates  and  crepe 
napkins  in  stock,  when  the  doorbell  again  rang  its  prear 
ranged  double  ring.  She  was  thrilled  and  somewhat  discon 
certed.  Larry  had  certainly  purchased  his  trousseau  and 
his  license  at  express  speed,  she  reflected,  as  she  rushed  to 
open  the  door. 

The  sight  she  met  was  crushing  and  somewhat  terrible. 
The  Harvard  tramp  appeared  more  tramplike  and  less 
Harvardlike  than  ever  before.  There  was  a  look  of  de 
jection,  of  sullen  revolt  in  his  eyes — and  something  else, 
too,  that  she  was  afraid  to  understand.  As  he  brushed  by 
her  his  atmosphere  glowed  with  volatile  fumes  he  had 
acquired  at  some  convenient  bar. 

"Larry!"  she  cried;  and  her  first  thought  was  of  sym- 


FREE  279 

pathy,  because  it  was  evident  that  something  terrible  had  be 
fallen  him. 

"Hortense,  it  can't  be  done !"  he  announced,  sinking  on 
the  couch  and  combing  his  dishevelled  hair  with  slender, 
dirty  fingers. 

"What  can't  be  done  ?  You  mean  the  stores  are  all  closed 
and  the  barbershops " 

"No,  no !  But  the  disgusting  laws  of  this  half-civilised 
country  make  it  impossible  for  us  to  carry  out  our  pro 
gramme." 

"About  the  Baptist  preacher?"  She  was  determined  to 
be  adamant  in  this  direction,  when  he  exploded  again. 

"No,  no !  But  the  money  you  require  to  keep  us  in  this 
bourgeois  respectability  you  demand.  I've  seen  her.  She 
won't  give  it  up." 

"Seen  who?    Who  won't  give  it  up?" 

"Seen  my  wife.    She " 

"Your  wife  ?"  Medea  never  put  a  sharper  question  to  her 
Jason. 

"Not  my  regular  wife — my  divorced  wife.  The  banal 
laws  of  this  stupid  country  compelled  me  to  pay  her  my 
whole  allowance  in  alimony.  I  dropped  in  on  my  way  down 
town  and  asked  her  to  be  reasonable.  She  insists  in  her 
attitude  of  petty  revenge." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  divorced?"  snapped 
the  disillusioned  one. 

"Why  should  I  ?  Did  I  ask  you  about  your  private  affairs 
when  I  proposed  marriage  to  you  ?" 

"That's  entirely  different."  She  wasn't  tall,  but  she 
seemed  to  stand  miles  above  his  frowsily  diminished  head. 
"When  a  man's  divorced  and  comes  courting  a  girl  just  as  if 
he  was  a — a  bachelor — good  gracious !  Haven't  you  any 
reverence  for  matrimony  ?" 

He  looked  up  and  smiled  miserably. 

"How  can  I,"  he  asked,  "when  I've  been  tied  and  untied 
three  times  in  seven  years?" 


280  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Oh !"  She  was  surprised  that  she  could  be  so  calm.  Life 
was  never  like  this  in  the  moving  pictures. 

"And  I  suppose  you're  dividing  your  income  with  them, 
also?" 

"The  first  two  ?  No.  I  didn't  have  any  money  then,  and 
they  were  glad  enough  to  break  away  without  charge." 

"I  think  I  prefer  the  way  the  first  two  did,"  she  in 
formed  him — "breaking  away  without  charge." 

Apparently  he  put  a  cheering  construction  upon  this 
speech,  for  he  brightened  visibly. 

"Hortense,  you're  a  darling !"  he  reassured  her.  "I  knew 
you'd  take  a  broad-minded  view  of  the  matter." 

She  had  kept  comparatively  calm  up  to  this  point,  but  the 
last  speech  had  the  effect  of  roiling  her  to  the  depths. 

"I'm  entirely  too  broad-minded  for  you,"  she  spat  out. 

"As  long  as  you  feel  that  way  about  it" — he  was  quite 
pale,  but  he  still  retained  his  smile  as  he  came  to  his  feet — 
"I'd  better  go,  and  give  you  a  chance  to  get  over  it." 

"That  will  be  quite  a  piece  of  time,"  said  she,  cooling 
as  suddenly  as  she  had  flamed.  And  then  she  made  a  most 
unchivalrous  request  which  revealed  her  as  no  Fabian,  but 
a  Maximalist  of  the  deepest  dye. 

"Before  you  go,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand,  "you 
might  give  me  back  that  thirty-nine  dollars." 

He  didn't  move.  He  didn't  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
because  they  were  already  there ;  but  the  pallor  of  his  face 
deepened  through  all  the  shades  of  rose  dye,  from  palest 
coral  to  purplest  American  Beauty. 

"I — I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  wait  for  that,"  he  stam 
mered. 

"Well,  you  are  a  swift  worker!"  she  found  herself  telling 
the  Finest  Mind  in  her  most  unladylike  tone.  And  then : 
"What  in  the  world  have  you  done  with  it?" 

"Well,  you  see,  my  wife — I  forgot  that  I  was  behind  with 
my  alimony " 

"I  see.  The  third  Mrs.  Hoden — or  do  you  keep  count  ? — 
had  to  be  paid,  so  you  settled  with  my  money."  She  found 


FREE  281 

herself  uttering  one  of  those  laughs  which  tear  the  heart. 

"Annie  was  on  the  warpath.  What  could  I  do  ?  Threat 
ened  to  drag  me  into  the  alimony  court.  The  capitalistic 
judge  there  would  be  only  too  glad  to  send  me  to  jail  for 
a  hundred  years." 

There  was  a  quantity  of  mumbled  explanation  still  com 
ing,  but  Hortense  retreated  to  the  kitchen  and  slammed  the 
door  behind  her.  Had  he  followed  her  to  that  armoury  of 
bread  knives,  ice  picks,  rolling  pins  and  can  openers  this 
tale  would  doubtless  have  ended  in  one  of  those  backyard 
tragedies  which  have  no  place  in  the  pages  of  high  romance. 

Instead  of  mangling  her  ex-adorer  Hortense  spent  a 
savage  afternoon  cutting  sandwich  bread.  Rage  has  an 
anaesthetic  quality  and  she  did  not  realise  how  terribly  she 
was  suffering  during  those  hours  of  detestable  preparation 
for  Mrs.  Cull's  buffet  supper.  The  affair  was  to  be  given 
at  eight  and  Comrade  Harriet  came  stamping  in  at  seven- 
thirty,  full  of  ideas  about  humanity  in  general  but  empty 
of  suggestions  as  to  how  a  dinner  for  fifteen  could  be 
planned,  cooked  and  served  by  an  amateur  houseworker 
with  a  broken  heart. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  to  get  orange-coloured  candles  instead 
of  those  ugly  white  things?"  asked  the  equal  sharer,  poking 
her  head  in  at  the  door.  It  was  evident  that  Hortense's  re 
bellious  attitude  over  the  telephone  had  been  ill  received. 
But  the  comrade  went  on  in  a  more  conciliatory  tone :  "My 
dear,  it's  going  to  be  a  wonderful  evening,  and  I  hope 
you'll  be  attentive  to  what's  said.  Comrade  Isadore  has 
planned  a  national  strike  on  entirely  new  lines."  It  was 
as  though  she  were  speaking  of  a  clever  male  dressmaker; 
but  no  matter,  for  she  went  right  on :  "And  Adam  Whaile 
will  clarify  your  attitude  tremendously.  I'm  so  glad  we'll 
have  this  opportunity  to  introduce  our  convert  from  the 
capitalistic  class.  He  promises  to  be  one  of  our  most  bril 
liant " 

"How  are  we  going  to  serve  drinks  for  fifteen  with  only 
nine  glasses?" 


282  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

The  disciple  never  looked  round.  When  at  last  she  did 
turn  she  found  that  the  door  had  swung  to  and  Comrade 
Harriet  had  disappeared. 

Being  of  Puritan  stock,  transplanted  and  grown  stronger 
in  the  Middle  West,  Hortense  had  a  prejudice  against 
breaking  contracts  or  leaving  people  in  the  lurch.  Other 
wise  she  would  have  discarded  her  apron  then  and  there, 
left  several  kilometers  of  spaghetti  to  cool  under  the  sink, 
and  gone  forth  into  the  night.  Instead  she  arrayed  a 
variety  of  sandwiches,  olives  and  sliced  ham  on  the  big 
table  in  the  studio.  She  set  the  favorita  d'ltalia  to  warming, 
snuggled  a  dozen  bottles  against  the  ice — and  all  the  time 
her  mind  was  planning  such  a  revolt  as  no  chained  muzhik 
ever  planned  under  the  lowering  Fortress  of  Sts.  Peter  and 
Paul. 

At  last  she  heard  the  party  coming  in.  Comrade  Harriet's 
soprano  modulations  floated  contrastingly  above  cordial 
basso  roars  from  the  throats  erf  blood-bonded  Button 
Moulders.  The  alarm  clock  over  the  sink  recorded  six 
minutes  past  eight — it  was  either  fast  or  slow,  she  couldn't 
remember  which. 

By  the  noise  outside  it  sounded  as  though  Mrs.  Cull's 
jubilee  had  swollen  from  fifteen  to  fifty.  Hortense  would 
not  have  been  surprised. 

The  door  swung  again,  and  again  Mrs.  Cull's  head  was 
apparent. 

"My  dear,"  she  invited,  "aren't  you  coming  in  to  meet  the 
comrades  ?" 

"Some  one  has  to  look  after  the  food,  you  know,"  replied 
the  hitherto  silent  partner,  fixing  her  benefactress  with 
hostile  eyes. 

"Oh,  so  some  one  has,"  agreed  Harriet  Pebbles  Cull. 
Then  bringing  her  entire  bag-draped  figure  into  the  kitchen 
she  took  up  the  matter  more  minutely. 

"My  dear  child,"  she  asked,  "what's  wrong?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  Mrs.  Cu — Comrade  Harriet.  I'm  just 
worried  about  this  dinner.  It's  pretty  short  notice,  you  know. 


FREE  283 

And  I  shan't  be  able  to  stir  from  this  kitchen  until  the 
spaghetti  is  served." 

Comrade  Harriet  sighed  her  forgiveness. 

"I'll  have  Comrade  Elsa  and  Comrade  Judith  help  serve. 
You're  not  going  to  miss  Comrade  Isadore's  speech?" 

"I  think  so." 

"But,  child!  Certainly  you'll  meet  the  convert;  and 
Comrade  Larry's  wandering  around  quite  lost." 

"My  Lord,  I  believe  the  spaghetti's  burning!"  lamented 
Hortense,  insanely  longing  to  empty  the  squamy,  squirmy 
contents  of  the  can  over  the  uplifter's  tranquil  head. 

The  noise  grew  louder  outside,  and  presently  Comrades 
Judith  and  Elsa — the  former  an  enormously  stout  maiden 
who  favoured  little  cigars — came  in  to  bear  away  cardboard 
plates,  glasses  and  ice-cooled  bottles. 

"There  aren't  glasses  enough,"  was  Comrade  Elsa's  star 
tling  discovery. 

"We'll  let  the  convert  drink  out  of  a  bottle — converts 
should,  you  know,"  giggled  the  fat  girl,  who  dared  to  joke 
on  Parnassus. 

"His  influence  will  be  enormous,"  Elsa  was  solemnly 
predicting,  evidently  referring  to  the  convert  as  she  balanced 
two  plates  of  spaghetti  in  the  same  hand.  "He  came  quite 
voluntarily." 

At  last,  after  fifteen  shares  had  been  ladled  forth  and 
the  comrade  waitresses  had  gone  to  their  convert,  Hortense 
retreated  to  Craza  Heeld's  deserted  nest  and  sat  down  to 
gaze  at  the  stylish  lady  of  1898  who  reclined  under  an 
idealised  linden  in  the  obsolete  brewery  calendar. 

Hortense  felt  as  lonely  as  that  painted  girl  upon  her 
painted  landscape.  She  had  made  up  her  stubborn  little 
mind  to  avoid  Comrade  Harriet's  party  to-night ;  she  could 
never  have  sat  in  the  same  room,  breathed  the  same  smoky 
atmosphere  with  Larry  Hoden  and  his  craven  spirit.  Also, 
she  had  a  shameful  dread  of  bursting  into  tears  at  the  very 
thought  of  those  wonderful  wedding  clothes.  Unique  in 
all  the  history  of  disappointed  brides,  she  was  not  regretting 


284  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

her  own  trousseau,  never  to  be,  but  was  mourning  the  hypo 
thetical  beauties  of  a  bridegroom's  garments.  How  splendid 
Larry  would  have  looked  in  a  high-winged  collar  with  a 
solitaire  pearl  in  the  knot  of  his  cravat! 

"Comrade  Hortense!" 

She  heard  Mrs.  Cull's  sweetly  tyrannical  note  floating 
toward  her  from  the  kitchen. 

"I'm  in  here,"  replied  Hortense,  keeping  her  seat  near 
the  bed  of  the  Craza  Heeld. 

"What  can  you  be  doing  in  there  ?  Comrade  Isadore  will 
begin  in  a  few  minutes.  Won't  you  bring  in  a  half  dozen 
more  bottles  of  beer?" 

"They're  on  the  ice,"  replied  Hortense — and  then  her 
familiar  fiend  prompted  her  to  the  arch  impiety:  "They 
aren't  heavy.  You  might  take  them  in  yourself." 

"I  might — what?" 

"Take  them  in  yourself." 

"Are  you  aware  that  you  are  being  very  impertinent?" 

"I  thought  that  nobody  but  servant  girls  and  children 
were  ever  impertinent."  Hortense  would  have  perched  her 
heels  on  the  bureau,  only  it  was  too  high.  But  she  managed 
to  tilt  her  chair  back  in  the  most  defiant  fashion.  "Of 
course,  in  an  equal  partnership  like  ours — 

"I  have  no  time  for  a  discussion,"  announced  the  editor 
of  The  Unshackled,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 

The  high  heels  clicked  angrily  across  the  oilcloth  and 
the  hinges  of  the  swinging  door  groaned  on  their  springs. 
The  poor  misguided  girl  had  no  way  of  knowing  just  how 
long  she  sat  there,  frozen  with  her  own  impiety,  her  chair 
tilted  back,  her  eyes  glazed  as  were  the  cheeks  of  the  solitary 
beer  drinker  in  the  brewery  calendar. 

Then  of  a  sudden  down  came  the  front  legs  of  the  chair, 
under  the  bed  dashed  the  head  and  hands  of  Hortense 
Troutt,  and  out  they  came  again,  the  hands  clutching  one 
of  those  wicker  suitcases  that  country  bankers  and  poor 
relations  always  carry.  Packing  was  easy.  She  simply 


FREE  285 

pulled  out  the  top  drawer  of  her  bureau  and  reversed  it 
over  the  open  suitcase. 

It  was  lucky  she  had  saved  that  five  dollars  out  of  the 
Larry  loan,  she  reflected,  as  she  kicked  aside  Mrs.  Cull's 
secondhand  dress  and  began  getting  into  the  pretty,  clever 
imitation  of  some  rich  woman's  street  costume — the  imi 
tation  she  had  worn  so  saucily  in  the  days  of  Saulser  and 
Sauljer,  a  period  now  as  remote  as  the  Pliocene.  As  she 
dressed  she  was  formulating  plans.  She  would  steal  out 
by  the  rear  entrance,  telephone  Mrs.  Kelley  from  a  corner 
drug  store  and  plead  for  a  night's  lodging.  Then  to-morrow 
she  would  go  over  to  Newark,  look  up  Lulu  McCabe  and 
offer  herself  as  a  supernumerary  in  the  gigantic  following 
of  the  Lummox  Film  Corporation. 

She  had  got  on  her  hat  and  was  regarding  her  suddenly 
smartened  appearance  in  the  mirror  when  the  misery  of 
her  mistake  seemed  to  flash  out  at  her  from  the  glass,  to 
shame  and  overcome  her. 

"Don't  do  it!"  she  said  aloud  in  a  queer  little  broken 
voice.  She  didn't  mean  "Don't  run  away!"  or  "Don't  Re 
bel  !"  or  "Don't  seek  a  job  with  the  movies !"  What  she  was 
trying  to  tell  herself  was  merely  "Don't  cry !"  But  she 
could  feel  the  glands  tickling  and  burning  at  the  base  of 
her  nose,  and  she  had  a  frightful  feeling  that  some  of  the 
emancipated  would  come  in  and  find  her  there — and  heaven 
knew  how  they  would  take  it ! 

She  reached  hysterically  for  her  suitcase  and  had  just 
gained  the  threshold  of  the  kitchen  when  she  was  aware 
of  a  modishly  clad  masculine  presence  leaning  over  an  open 
door  of  the  ice  box.  So  creaselessly  correct  were  the  lines 
of  the  costume,  so  tall  and  white  the  collar,  so  varnished 
the  boots,  that  Hortense  enjoyed  a  momentary  fear  that 
she  had  become  infected  with  the  germ  of  the  Craza  Heeld, 
that  her  imagination  had  conjured  up  this  vision  of  the 
perfect  bridegroom.  However,  the  well-dressed  spectre 
proved  better  tailored  than  bred,  for  it  turned  and  sang 
out:  "Where  d'ye  keep  your  beer?" 


286  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"My  goodness'  sakes  alive !"  gasped  Hortense  Troutt ; 
for  when  her  vision  had  straightened  itself  out  she  saw 
what  she  saw.  It  was  Saul  Shilpik,  Jr! 

Pots  and  pans,  shelves,  cupboards,  gas  ranges  seemed 
to  swim  round  her  as  though  Mrs.  Cull's  ism  had  over 
flowed  into  the  kitchen  and  caused  all  things  to  float.  Out 
of  this  a  strangely  idealised  Sauljer  sprang,  young  Perseus 
to  the  relief  of  a  chained  Andromeda.  She  could  see  him 
distinctly  in  all  the  blur,  and  what  alone  seemed  to  matter 
now  was  the  one  transcendent  fact — he  looked  so  clean. 
The  brightness  of  his  new  necktie  flashed  upon  her  like  a 
star  through  the  rift  in  a  departing  hurricane. 

It  seemed  perfectly  normal  that  his  arm  should  have 
gone  round  her  and  that  she  should  hear  his  consoling 
nasals  inquiring:  "What's  happened  to  you,  Hortense? 
You're  all  in.  Have  you  been  on  a  hunger  strike  or  some 
thing?" 

"Don't  keep  me.  I'm  running  away,"  she  faintly  told 
him,  paradoxically  clinging  to  him  as  to  a  rock  of  refuge. 

"So  am  I,"  he  giggled  rather  nervously.  "I  only  came 
here  to  sleuth  you  out." 

"Sleuth  me  out?"  she  echoed  vacantly. 

"Sure !  I'm  the  convert,  you  know.  We'd  better  step 
on  the  gas  or  they'll  get  me  again." 

He  half  led,  half  dragged  her  toward  the  rear  entrance. 
When  they  were  out  on  the  third-floor  landing  she  felt  very 
weak  and  it  became  his  obvious  duty  to  support  her  again. 

"Honey,  what's  this  gang  been  doing  to  you  ?"  he  was  ask 
ing  in  her  ear.  "What  do  they  think  you  are — a  galley 
slave?" 

"S-Sauljer,"  she  implored  as  steadily  as  she  could,  "you 
c-can't  go  without  your  hat !" 

"Can't  I?"  he  defied.  "To  get  away  from  that  bunch 
I'd  go  without  my " 

He  didn't  denominate  the  garment  he  would  sacrifice  in 
the  name  of  liberty.  In  fact  his  remarks  had  become  discon- 


FREE  287 

nected,  because  Hortense  had  lost  control  of  her  tear 
glands  and  was  sobbing  deliciously  in  his  arms. 

"Shush!  Cheese  it!"  he  cautioned.  "First  you  know 
they'll  be  pouncing  out  and  pulling  us  in.  Heaven  help 
us  if  that  Queen  o'  the  Highbrows  gets  her  hooks  on  us  a 
second  time !" 

He  dragged  her  farther  along  the  passage,  and  when  they 
had  gained  the  comparative  safety  of  the  second  landing  he 
stopped  for  breath  and  chuckled:  "Eliza  crossing  the  ice. 
If  we  duck  the  hounds  we're  safe.  I've  got  my  new 
racin'  runabout  parked  round  the  corner." 

"Sauljer — it's  a  miracle!"  she  confessed.  "If  you  hadn't 
shown  up  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become  of  me." 

"They  would  have  tied  you  to  the  piano  and  talked  you 
to  death,  one  leg  at  a  time,"  said  Sauljer,  who  was  now 
conducting  her  through  open  air  toward  the  grey  monster 
which  crouched  between  its  tires  in  a  gutter  under  the 
Elevated  railroad. 

"Say,  girlie,  you  thought  I  was  kiddin'  you  that  day  in 
the  office,  didn't  you?  Think  it  over!  Why,  when  you 
made  that  high  dive  off  the  job  I  went  about  twenty  thou 
sand  feet  in  the  air.  Telephone?  Say,  I  kept  the  line  so 
busy  that  they're  going  to  put  in  a  new  exchange  and  name 
it  after  me.  The  fat  lady  at  your  flat  said  she  thought 
you'd  gone  into  the  movies  somewhere — then  this  morning 
I  tackled  her  again  and  she  fessed  up  that  you'd  joined  the 
Band  of  Hope  and  was  tooting  a  trombone  for  old  lady 
Pebbles.  So  I  sleuthed  out  Sister  Cull ;  she  wouldn't  listen 
until  I  told  her  I'd  got  the  bug  and  wanted  to  join  the  Polly- 
Terry-Hutt,  or  whatever  you  call  the  thing.  So  I  came  to 
her  party,  and  I'll  never  get  over  the  headache  it  gave  me 
tryin'  to  follow  Harriet !" 

"Will  you  take  me  round  to  the  flat?"  she  asked  faintly, 
as  soon  as  they  had  come  up  level  with  the  grey  body  of  the 
racing  runabout. 

"I  will  not!"  replied  Sauljer  positively.  "Mrs.  Kelley 
hasn't  got  room  to  take  in  a  married  couple." 


288  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Oh." 

"Get  me?"  asked  Sauljer,  evidently  quite  confident  that 
he  had  got  her.  "And,  say,  I've  got  a  swell  piece  of  news 
for  you." 

He  beamed  so  cheerfully  that  Hortense  was  half  pre 
pared  for  the  blessing  which  had  fallen  when  he  announced: 
"Papa's  got  an  awful  attack  of  inflammatory  rheumatism!" 

"Actually?" 

"Posi-tively !  He  can't  come  down  to  the  office  any  more. 
I'm  moved  up  to  the  main  desk.  Get  that?" 

The  smart  car  moved  silently  away,  as  though  sharing 
its  owner's  fear  that  the  tribes  of  Upliftland  would  get 
wind  of  their  escape. 

"Then,  Sauljer,  dear,"  she  whispered,  with  a  deep  and 
happy  sigh,  "we  can  keep  a  hired  girl,  can't  we  ?" 

It  was  nearly  a  month  later,  the  hour  being  about  six, 
when  Comrade  Larry  slouched  into  the  inner  office  of  The 
Unshackled,  as  he  often  did  at  the  approach  of  mealtime; 
Mrs.  Cull  was  now  taking  her  dinner  at  an  Italian  restau 
rant,  leaving  the  servant  problem  to  the  miserable  bour 
geoisie  who  created  it. 

"Sit  down,  comrade,"  said  she,  drawing  a  blue  pencil 
through  a  page  of  manuscript  of  the  supplied-without- 
charges  variety.  "Damon  Irks  is  prolix  again.  As  soon 
as  I've  gotten  rid  of  another  five  hundred  words  we'll  go 
over  to  De  Medici's  for  dinner." 

Larry  sifted  chopped  straw  into  brown  paper  and  bode 
his  time. 

"Larry,"  said  she  at  last,  laying  down  her  pencil  and 
dangling  her  glasses  at  the  end  of  their  black  cord,  "I've 
got  traces  of  that  Troutt  girl." 

"Indeed." 

The  crease  in  the  brown  paper  suddenly  broke,  permitting 
a  shower  of  straw  to  fall  into  the  Harvard  tramp's  lap. 

He  reached  clumsily  for  the  string  of  his  tobacco  sack, 
dangling  from  an  upper  pocket. 


FREE  289 

"She  is  irreconcilable,  unreclaimable  and,  in  the  strictest 
sense  of  the  word,  amoral.  She  has  married  that  hypo 
critical  capitalist,  Saul  Shilpik,  and  is  living  in  a  state 
of  disgusting  bourgeois  luxury  on  Riverside  Drive." 

"Where  did  you  get  that  stuff?"  he  inquired,  modulating 
his  cultured  voice  to  the  slang  he  idealised  as  he  did  the 
grease  on  his  coat. 

"They  asked  me  to  dinner  last  night." 

"Hm."  His  cigarette  hand  shook.  "Of  course,  you  re 
fused?" 

"Quite  to  the  contrary.  I  went,  as  I  feel  it  my  duty 
to  go  wherever  my  social  investigations  call  me.  They 
have,  as  I  remember  it,  thirteen  rooms  and  four  baths — 
possibly  it  is  thirteen  baths  and  four  rooms.  The  figures 
are  immaterial.  There  is  much  gaudy  carving  and  garish 
panelling  in  the  dining  room,  in  imitation  of  that  baronial 
pomp  which  the  bourgeoisie  love  to  affect.  They  have  a 
footman  in  a  ridiculously  feudal  livery,  and  the  intricacy  of 
their  furnishings  is  entirely  in  keeping  with  the  ideas  of 
the  unchastened  few  who  glorify  their  shame  at  the  ex 
pense  of  the  unawakened  many.  They  served  three  kinds 
of  wine  in  a  variety  of  etched  glasses.  Altogether  it  was 
disgusting,  but  not  without  its  fascination.  I  wash  my 
hands  of  that  Troutt  girl.  During  the  evening  she  showed 
me  sufficient  of  her  character  to  convince  me  that  she  is 
addicted  to  soft  living  and  entirely  ungrateful  for  all  that 
I  have  done  for  her." 

"It  is  just  as  I  have  always  maintained,"  said  Comrade 
Larry,  after  consuming  half  his  cigarette  at  one  magnificent 
intake,  "there  are  some  people  who  are  temperamentally 
and  morally  unfitted  to  receive  freedom." 


VIII 

GASLESS  SUNDAY 


IT'S  gasless  Sunda,  I'm  after  tellin'  ye,"  the  skeleton  in 
livery  was  creaking  from  his  high  throne  above  a  night 
mare  hansom  cab.  "I'm  a-wor-r-kin'  on  me  own  skejool 
to-night.  Pay  me  price  or  walk." 

Under  the  fuel-administered  glimmer  of  Broadway,  the 
time  being  12 102  A.  M.,  Mr.  Pontius  Blint  limped  on  a 
gouty  foot  out  of  the  misadventures  of  a  gloomy  Saturday 
night  into  the  calamities  of  a  drizzly  Sunday  morning.  A 
few  scattered  taxicabs,  chugging  mournfully  toward  their 
garages,  proclaimed  the  horror  of  the  situation. 

"It's  gasless  Sunda !"  the  spectre  in  the  ratty  beaver  was 
insisting  to  the  mob  of  outraged  citizens  collected  on  the 
curb.  "Th'  year  round  ye  can  have  yer  grand  taxys  an' 
limy-zeens.  But  to-night  ye  pay  good  if  ye  ride  with  me.'' 

Vaguely  recalling  that  Death  in  a  poem  had  once  spoken 
in  a  similar  vein,  Pontius  exerted  the  will-power  of  an  in 
dustrial  leader  and  got  himself  to  the  forefront  of  the  crowd. 

"Here,  my  man !  What's  your  rate  ?"  he  asked  sharply, 
bringing  his  cane  like  a  chairman's  gavel  on  the  edge  of  the 
box. 

"Where  d'ye  want  to  go?" 

Pontius  really  wanted  to  go  somewhere  where  lights 
glared  and  music  played,  but  he  felt  too  ill  for  further 
parley. 

"The  Hotel  Merlinbilt,"  he  said. 

"I  don't  leave  me  stand  for  less  than  tin  dollars,"  the 

290 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  291 

spectre  decreed,  pulling  the  reins  taut  over  a  steed  which 
Don  Quixote  would  have  abandoned  to  the  ash-man. 

"Robber !  Thief !  Grafter !"  now  came  the  chorus  of 
citizens,  soldiers  and  others. 

"You're  a  robber,"  Pontius  obligingly  took  up  the  refrain. 

"I  am  that — an'  the  fur-r-st  time  for  manny  a  year  I've 
had  me  chance." 

"You're  a  profiteer,"  was  the  next  best  argument  which 
came  to  the  invalid's  mind. 

"I'm  a  Dimocrat,  savin'  yer  honour.  An'  now  will  ye 
step  in  or  step  aside  for  a  payin'  coostomer?" 

Pontius  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  muggy  heavens  and  con 
sidered  the  effects  of  rain  upon  a  gouty  foot. 

"Take  me  and  be  damned  to  you !"  he  snarled,  whereat 
the  folding  doors  swung  on  their  mysterious  hinges  and  he 
deposited  his  weary  form  into  the  depths  of  the  padded 
casket.  Overhead,  coming  from  the  direction  of  the  driver's 
box,  he  could  hear  a  loud  kissing  sound  as  a  drooping, 
water-soaked  whip  fell  forward  and  flecked  itself  against 
the  sorriest  carcass  that  ever  stood  between  thills. 

"Come  along,  Pansy !" 

Pansy,  poor  thing,  gave  a  moan  and  lurched  against  a 
collar  so  large  for  her  that  she  might  well  have  walked 
through  it.  With  the  rocking  chair  motion  peculiar  to  han 
som  cabs  the  creaking  structure  turned  eastward  toward 
Fifth  Avenue,  while  Pontius  sat  considering. 

His  whole  adventure  had  dwindled  to  a  messy  failure, 
had  gone  dead  on  him,  much  as  the  lights  had  gone  out  in 
the  Pandemonium  Roof  at  almost  the  moment  he  had  taken 
a  table  with  the  idea  of  sitting  up  all  night.  How  brightly 
on  the  Saturday  afternoon  which  was  yesterday  he  had  left 
his  poison-gas  projectile  factory  in  Jersey  and  had  come  to 
New  York  fired  with  a  young  enthusiasm.  How  he  had 
chuckled  to  think  of  the  gasp  of  glad  surprise  when  he 
should  appear  before  his  wife  at  her  Liberty  Loan  booth 
and  write  down  his  name  for  a  half  million  dollars.  Thus 
the  anticipated  glory  of  a  few  hours  had  gone.  And  here 


292  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

sat  Pontius  in  a  rickety  cab,  his  gouty  foot  throbbing  time 
to  the  sudden  thoughts  which  lay  mired  inside  his  brain. 

Three  brilliant  impulses  had  brought  him  here ;  to  make 
his  peace  with  the  misjudged  Mrs.  Blint,  to  loan  till  it  hurt, 
to  feed  heavily  and  dance  lightly  until  dawn.  And  one  after 
the  other  his  three  rich  impulses  had  been  knocked  over  the 
head,  one,  two,  three,  a  series  of  mangled  illusions.  Firstly 
he  had  appeared  at  his  wife's  apartment  in  the  Merlinbilt 
only  to  be  informed  that  his  wife  had  disappeared  for  the 
night.  Secondly  the  tired  workers  in  Mrs.  Elint's  booth 
had  killed  his  enthusiasm  by  speaking  shortly  of  Mrs.  Blint 
as  of  one  dead  and  not  to  be  regretted.  And  blow  number 
three  had  fallen  sullenly  at  Florio's,  where,  his  appetite  fixed 
upon  red  meat  and  redder  wine,  he  had  scarcely  seen  ruddy 
duck  and  Burgundy  set  under  his  nose  than  his  ancient 
enemy,  gout,  had  caught  him  by  the  foot  as  in  the  jaws  of 
a  steel  trap,  wherefore  he  had  ordered  milk  toast  and  rat 
tled  the  chandeliers  with  his  great  round  oaths. 

The  iron-shod  wheels  bumped  over  Broadway's  shell- 
craters  and  to  every  bump  his  foot  responded  with  a  twinge ; 
his  irritation  grew.  For  seven  months  Pontius  had  gone 
without  his  customary  luxuries,  had  eaten  characterless 
food,  washed  down  with  weak  coffee,  had  suffered  the  pangs 
of  self-internment  in  order  that  the  government  job,  whicu 
he  had  undertaken  because  he  was  the  biggest  man  for  the 
place,  might  be  organised  to  the  point  of  efficiency.  Being 
by  nature  a  sensualist — that  is  to  say,  a  New  Yorker — he 
had  longed  for  his  native  town  much  as  a  catfish,  acciden 
tally  tossed  into  a  trout-stream,  might  waste  away  for  the 
mud,  oil  and  constant  churning  of  some  busy  barge  canal. 
Dreams  of  ruddy  duck  and  Burgundy  had  fevered  his 
nights,  visions  of  continuous  tangoes  under  the  jazz  and 
jasemine  on  the  Pandemonium  Roof  had  distracted  his  days. 
Through  those  months  of  uninterrupted  grind  he  had 
planned  it  in  the  back  of  his  head,  knowing  that  he  was 
tired  and  that  he  owed  himself  a  party. 

And  here  he  was  in  a  war-darkened  New  York,  lurching 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  293 

through  the  slush  in  Death's  own  chariot.  Even  the  Pan 
demonium  Roof,  compliant  with  government  regulations, 
had  turned  him  out  into  the  street. 

Pontius  Blint  was  a  prey  to  peevishness,  peevishness  being 
usually  the  outward  symbol  of  heart-ache.  It  wasn't  gout 
and  it  wasn't  a  cheated  digestion  and  it  wasn't  disappointed 
patriotism  that  troubled  him.  Curse  as  he  might  at  his  foot, 
his  food  or  his  fate,  it  was  not  one  or  the  other  of  these 
that  spoiled  his  rest.  What  pained  him  was  Mrs.  Blint. 

When  first  he  had  gone  to  Jersey  to  give  his  knowledge 
of  cyanogen  to  the  Vesuvius  Gas  Projectile  Works  he  had 
left  a  sort  of  left-handed  blessing  with  Julia,  his  wife,  and 
with  Doris,  his  daughter — now  Mrs.  Middleton  Knox.  He 
had  seen  in  them  a  tendency  to  take  the  war  as  a  cross  be 
tween  the  horse  show  and  the  mardi  gras.  There  were 
plenty  of  genuine  women  in  the  land,  he  realised,  but  he  had 
taken  it  for  granted  that  Julia  and  Doris  were  not  among 
them ;  and  yet  he  had  hoped  wistfully  at  times  that  world- 
tragedy  and  world-sacrifice  might  work  some  magic  soften 
ing  about  those  ladies  whose  emotions  had  never  seemed 
any  deeper  than  their  plucked  eyebrows  and  enamelled  com 
plexions.  In  times. of  peace  he  had  tolerated,  even  loved 
them  for  what  they  were — porcelain  ornaments  admirably 
suited  to  their  bloodless  environment.  But  war  had  taken 
Pontius  out  of  his  fatted  ease,  and  self-denial  had  bred  in 
him  a  scorn  of  such  women  as  quarrel  for  social  prefer 
ment  over  the  dead  bodies  of  their  warriors.  And  war  had 
proved  to  him — or  so  he  had  thought  for  several  months — 
that  his  Julia  and  his  Doris  were  of  that  sort  and  no  better. 
Then  there  had  come  a  change  over  Julia's  letters.  She  was 
going  in  "heart  and  soul,"  as  she  described  it,  for  Liberty 
Bond  selling  and  other  necessary  work.  She  wanted  him 
to  stand  behind  her,  she  said.  And  poor,  trusting  Pontius 
had  hurried  to  town  to  help  to  the  extent  of  half  a  million 
dollars.  He  should  have  known  better.  Julia,  of  course, 
wasn't  on  the  job.  Tried  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting? 

With  such  bitter  thoughts  Pontius  made  up  his  mind  that 


294  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

he  should  not  go  to  bed;  and  he  was  about  to  confide  his 
resolution  to  the  skeleton  cabman  when  his  ideas  were  dis 
tracted  by  a  curious  woody  rattling  from  some  mysterious 
point  just  above  his  hat. 

"I've  carried  all  Noo  Yark,  dhrunk  an1  sober,  these 
twinty-  siven  years." 

This  spirit  communication,  floating  out  of  the  nowhere 
into  the  coffin-like  interior,  froze  the  practical-minded  Blint 
into  something  like  a  superstitious  palsy  until,  upon  looking 
up,  he  observed  that  the  cabman  had  opened  his  little  trap 
door  at  the  top  and  was  using  the  hole  as  a  mouthpiece 
through  which  to  address  his  memoirs. 

"Good.  Then  maybe  you  won't  charge  me  more  than 
ninety  dollars  extra  to  take  me  to  some  all-night  restau 
rant." 

"There  ain't  a  brick  in  Noo  Yark  I  don't  know  like  me 
grandfather's  wig  from  Bathry  Park  to  Cleopathrick's 
Needle  forninst  the  Methropol'tan  Museem.  A».  all-night 
cabaray  is  ut?  I'll  dhrive  ye  there." 

"Not  so  sudden!"  objected  Blint,  suspicious  at  the  un 
wonted  energy  with  which  the  cabman  was  jerking  his 
Pansy's  thin  neck  away  from  the  eastward  pilgrimage 
where,  all  too  obviously,  her  oats  lay.  "What  sort  of  a 
cabaret  do  you  mean?" 

"Kidd's  dairy  rest'rant,  sor." 

"What  are  you  driving  at?"  was  Pontius'  appropriate 
question,  for  the  mention  of  Kidd's  brought  visions  of 
those  standardised,  white-tiled,  middle-class  mush-and-milk 
palaces  where  the  economical  clerk  may  woo  Ceres  but  see 
nothing  of  either  Bacchus  or  Terpsichore. 

"Ye  moight  be  a  stranger  in  town,  Gineral,"  went  on  the 
burring  voice  from  above.  "But  sence  the  war  Kidd's  Res 
taurant  do  be  a  live  wire  an'  it's  me  that's  tellin'  ye.  Be 
cause  why?  Early  closin'  reg'lations.  Them  wid  a  whiskey 
license  must  close  on  th'  rap  o'  twelve ;  them  wid  nawthin' 
stronger  than  a  milk-bill  stays  up  full  blast  an'  singin'  till 
the  bright  day." 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  295 

"Anything's  better  than  going  to  bed,"  grunted  Pontius. 

"There'll  be  time  foi  sleepin'  when  we're  dead,"  came 
the  consoling  note.  "An'  we'll  all  be  that  soon.  Where 
there's  life  there's  dope.  Come  along,  Pansy!" 

Pontius  made  no  sign  as  the  bony  mare  executed  that 
difficult  manoeuvre  known  as  turning  around. 

"Takin'  ye  there'll  be  five  exthra  and  waitin'  tin,"  the 
trap  door  had  opened  again  to  warn  the  interned  cripple. 

"Look  here,"  protested  Pontius,  only  able  now  to  make 
a  feeble  moan.  "I've  come  all  the  way  over  from  Jersey, 
to  buy  Liberty  Bonds.  At  this  rate  I'll  have  to  borrow  to 
get  back." 

"Ye'll  git  nawthin'  from  me,"  came  the  melancholy  drone, 
and  Pontius  was  about  to  argue  that  such  a  sentiment 
savoured  more  of  the  purple  heather  than  of  the  green  sod, 
when  there  came  again  the  mortuary  refrain, 

"I've  carried  all  Noo  Yark,  dhrunk  an'  sober,  these  twin- 
ty-siven  years — and  what  do  I  git  out  av  ut?  Me  Ould 
Woman's  patched  me  coat  till  it  looks  like  the  Austhree- 
Hoongar'yan  flag — bad  cess  to  ut.  An'  here  I  set  in  me 
ould  age  dhrivin'  a  lame  mare  to  the  divvil's  own  doomp- 
cart.  Manny's  the  millionaire  an'  juke  I've  hauled  in  me 
day  from  th'  Astor  House  to  th'  Madison  Square  Garden. 
I've  seen  th'  toime  whin  I  wudn't  leave  me  stand  for  less 
than  two  dollars.  And  look  at  me  now." 

Pontius  Blint  did  his  level  best  to  look  at  him  then,  but 
all  he  could  see  was  the  point  of  a  grizzled  chin  silhouetted 
above  the  little  square  trap  door. 

"And  now  you're  getting  ten — or  asking  it,"  he  smiled  in 
spite  of  his  mood.  "The  reward  of  honesty — eh,  what  ?" 

Came  the  solemn  assurance  through  the  hole, 

"It's  honesty  that  done  for  me — honesty  and  gasoleen." 

"Since  when  did  those  two  get  acquainted?"  asked  he 
who  sat  solitary  as  a  medium  in  a  spirit  cabinet,  harking 
to  astral  voices. 

"They're  acquainted  like  the  sole  o'  me  fut  and  the  small 
o'  me  back.  Thim  was  happy  days,  sor,  whin  Noo  Yark 


296  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

thravelled  behind  horse-flesh  and  Jay  Goold  dhrove  his 
coach  an'  four  up  Fift'  Avenoo.  Taxy  cabs !  Huh !  Divvil 
a  wan.  Sorra  the  day  whin  fir-r-st  I  seen  wan  o'  thim  sac- 
riligious  little  stink-buggies  choogin'  it's  way  round  Union 
Square  smellin'  loike  a  fire  in  a  turpentine  factory.  On  that 
occasion,  sor,  I  says  to  Barney  McCarthy  that  dhrove  a 
horse-car  round  Fourteenth  Street — he's  dead  now  and  God 
never  rested  a  better  man's  soul — to  Barney  McCarthy  I 
says,  'It's  a  bad  day  for  you  and  for  me,  Barney,  now  that 
they're  learnin'  to  dhrive  hacks  wid  droogs  an'  chemicals.' " 

All  this  was  diverting.  The  rain  was  letting  up  and  Pon 
tius'  foot,  for  the  time  being,  was  letting  up  also. 

"So  the  evil  days  increased  and  multiplied!"  He  was 
merely  "feeding,"  as  they  say,  for  he  was  entertained  by 
the  swan-song  and  was  momentarily  afraid  that  the  lid 
would  pop  down  and  the  notes  would  cease. 

"Where  there  was  wan  there  came  a  dozen.  Come  a  year 
and  they  was  tick-tickin'  round  th'  Square  like  a  flock  o' 
buzzards  what  had  swallied  that  many  alar-r-um  clocks,  all 
the  thribes  av  Israel  jerkin'  at  th'  wheel  an'  takin'  the  oats 
out  o'  me  poor  Pansy's  mouth.  And  there  stood  I  like  a 
blind  pencil-seller,  offerin'  me  janius  fer  what  I  could  git 
fer  ut.  Fifty  cents  from  Union  Square  to  the  Waldorf 
Astory — can  ye  beat  that,  sor  ?" 

Pontius  could  not. 

"Gasoleen  has  got  into  the  stummick  o'  Noo  Yark  and 
made  'er  wild.  Nawthin'  healthy  wid  four  legs  and  a  tail 
behind  is  considered  grand  and  stylish  anny  more.  Now 
to  git  into  soci'ty  ye've  got  to  take  yer  gur-r-1  in  a  tin  thou 
sand  dollar  limma-zcen  half  way  to  Boston,  fill  up  on  cham- 
pagne-wather  an'  break  the  speed-laws  to  Philadelphy  in 
time  fer  yer  next  divoorce.  Look  at  th'  young  folks.  Ar-re 
they  satisfied  wid  Shakspeare  or  the  Eden  Musee  for  an 
avenin's  pleasure?  They  ar-re  not.  It's  whist  for  the 
movies  in  a  dress  suit  an'  a  cane  like  a  Frinch  juke.  Gaso 
leen  done  ut !" 

"You're  a  conservative!"   Pontius  was  cheered  by  the 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  297 

^ ^~ ~ i^ "^ ~ "^~ "~ *^ *""*"™^ 

sight  of  the  moon  coming  out  through  drifting  clouds.  In 
the  little  square  hole  above  he  could  see  one  bright  eye 
twinkling  with  an  elfin  light. 

"I'm  a  Dimocrat,"  the  high-seated  one  repeated  his  doxy. 
"An'  it  was  five  years  ago  me  Ould  Woman — and  there's 
none  betther — says  to  me,  'Jerry,'  says  she,  'the  sooner  ye 
come  to  ut  the  more  bacon  in  the  cupboard.'  'Gasoleen?' 
says  I.  'Befoor  I  come  to  ut  may  me  grave  sprout  this 
tles.'  '  'Twill  be  afther  sproutin'  thim  soon  enough  what 
wid  hunger  an'  high  rents/  says  she,  'an'  the  Socoity  for 
th'  Promotion  o'  Croolty  to  Animals  '11  be  lookin'  afther  yer 
Pansy  widout  consultin'  yer  Royle  Highness,'  says  she,  'an' 
if  ther's  wan  dhrop  o'  wisdom  above  yer  ears  ye'll  be  afther 
buyin'  wan  o'  thim  taxy  cabs  an'  learnin'  the  trick  av  it 
bef oor  it's  too  late.' " 

"Of  course  you  didn't  mind  her." 

"For  five  years  I  didn't.  But  this  marnin'  I  did.  There's 
a  yiddisher  be  the  name  av  Stanley  Rosewather  what's  got 
wan  o'  thim  things,  an'  sence  he  was  drafted  for  the  ar-r-my 
he'll  part  wid  ut,  take  ut  or  lave  ut,  for  two  hundhred  and 
twinty-five  dollars.  So  this  marnin'  I  took  me  fir-r-st  les 
son;  and  me  ould  feyther  should  have  turned  in  his  grave 
to  see  his  son  a-settin'  there  toogin'  at  a  haythen  wheel, 
bein'  called  a  harp  an'  a  coachman  be  a  wall-eyed  yiddisher 
whose  religious  convictions  ain't  no  betther  than  a  Chinee." 
It  seems  that  the  Voice  whose  name  was  Jerry  had 
fallen  under  the  charm  of  that  taxicab,  despite  his  protesta 
tions  to  the  contrary.  His  Old  Woman,  so  he  suspected, 
had  nearly  seventy-five  dollars  in  the  family  sock,  and  Jerry 
had  extorted  seventy  more  out  of  the  public's  need  on  the 
two  preceding  gasless  Sundays. 

"Wid  the  tin  I'm  chargin'  ye  thot'll  be  wan  fifty-five. 
And  to-morra's  gasless  Sunda  again ' 

At  this  point  the  faithful  Pansy,  as  though  already  worn 
out  with  her  efforts  to  buy  herself  from  bondage,  stumbled 
over  a  car-track ;  and  in  the  act  of  reining  her  to  her  feet 
her  master  let  the  trap  door  come  down  with  a  clatter. 


298  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


Pontius  Blint  actually  chuckled.  As  a  war  profiteer, 
Jerry  the  cabman  had  struck  at  the  very  root  of  supply  and 
demand.  Gas,  as  it  were,  had  asphyxiated  his  business  for 
twenty  years ;  and  in  this  short  breathing  spell  during  which 
the  Government  had  turned  off  the  gas,  Jerry  was  back  on 
the  job,  feeding  fat  his  grudge  against  the  public  which  had 
starved  and  neglected  him  during  the  best  years  of  his  life. 
And  when  this  harvest  time  was  over  he  would  get  himself 
a  taxicab ! 

Strange  is  the  circle  of  fate !  thought  Pontius  Blint,  only 
he  expressed  it  in  plain  business  terms  by  the  reflection  that 
even  in  the  hansom  cab  business  you  must  improve  your 
plant  to  meet  modern  conditions.  And  with  this  reflection 
the  padded  casket  in  which  he  sat  swayed  round  a  corner 
and  stopped.  Peering  through  the  round  window,  he  could 
see  the  great  glassy  restaurant  front,  exposing,  with  all  the 
immodesty  of  a  show-case,  the  skimmed-milk  whiteness  of 
a  vast  tiled  interior.  Right  under  the  famous  word 
"Kidd's,"  running  diagonally  in  white  porcelain  script 
across  the  middle  pane  of  plate  glass,  a  white-clad  juggler 
forever  conjured  the  nimble  flapjack  from  a  soapstone 
griddle  to  a  handy  plate.  Kow  could  the  Bacchantes  go 
rioting  to  Kidd's?  thought  Pontius  Blint,  staring  at  the 
scene.  How  could  the  great  god  Pan,  evicted  from  his  tem 
ple,  associate  with  the  little  god  Skillet,  forever  stewing 
cereal  foods  for  the  bourgeoisie  ?  And  yet  behold  the  mira 
cle  !  Crying  "Wait !"  to  Jerry  the  cabman,  Pontius  followed 
the  throng  which  surged  through  the  door,  all  but  fighting 
for  admittance,  hot  with  that  same  feverish  inspiration 
which  Mr.  Maeterlinck  attributes  to  a  tribe  of  bees  at 
swarming  time. 

A.  the  long  table  where  he  managed  to  sandwich  himself 
in  between  a  khakied  colonel  and  a  student  aviator  sat  many 
ladies  in  evening  wraps  and  a  few  gentlemen  who  ladled 
ham  and  eggs  carefully  above  their  pure  lawn  ties.  He  had 
not  seen  such  a  display  of  uniforms  and  fine  clothes  since 
the  last  diplomatic  reception  at  Washington.  Two  hundred 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  299 

rookies  from  Camp  Upton  were  marching  lock-step  round 
and  round  the  room,  chanting  more  or  less  in  accord,  "I 
hate  to  get  up  in  the  morning !"  In  the  centre  of  the  room 
an  elderly  vaudeville  artist,  standing  on  a  table,  volunteered 
a  saxophone  obligato  to  the  triumphal  march.  Across  from 
him  sat  six  splendid  warriors,  shrugging  the  silver  shoulder 
straps  of  ill-fated  Russia  as  they  gabbled  in  French  and  ate 
pie  a  la  mode  from  bomb-proof  plates.  Could  this  be 
Kidd's,  the  American  synonym  for  economical  feeding,  the 
hackneyed  joke  of  the  newspaper  paragrapher?  Appar 
ently  so,  for  there  in  the  window  stood  the  flapjack  juggler 
right  under  Kidd's  universally-known  trade-mark  in  porce 
lain  script. 

"A  stack  of  wheats  and  a  cup  of  coffee !"  commanded 
Pontius  in  the  correct  vernacular  when  the  waiter-lassie 
came  round. 

A  comic  barytone  had  just  finished  the  Yaphank  version 
of  Poor  Butterfly.  At  Pontius'  elbow  the  khakied  colonel 
released  his  glass  of  buttermilk  to  join  the  applause. 

"He's  from  Upton,"  smiled  the  officer,  "and  we've  got 
enough  professional  talent  out  there  to " 

Pontius  was  beginning  to  feel  that  this  was  just  what 
he  had  been  needing  for  months.  In  the  noise  and  hurrah 
of  it  he  almost  forgot  the  defection  of  his  wife,  the  disap 
pointment  which  threatened  to  turn  him  into  a  boggy  paci 
fist.  He  could  see  it  demonstrated  all  around  him,  the  vi 
brant  magic  which  had  turned  America  from  a  country 
into  a  nation.  Broadway  had  forsaken  its  dram  and  under 
the  influence  of  the  national  spirit  was  rejoicing  more 
spontaneously  than  ever  it  had  rejoiced  before — on  milk 
and  coffee ! 

Pontius  began  to  feel  that,  after  this,  Julia  couldn't  be  so 
bad  as  he  had  painted  her.  He  was  preparing  himself  to 
believe  that  he  would  go  back  to  the  hotel  and  find  that 
he  had  misjudged  her  again,  that  the  mistake  had  been  his 
and  not  hers — as  sometimes  happens  in  matrimonial  rela 
tions. 


300  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Two  Canadian  aviators,  one  with  an  empty  sleeve  and 
another  leaning  stiffly  on  a  cane,  came  down  the  centre  aisle 
and  were  offered  seats  by  thirteen  pretty  girls  and  forty- 
two  male  civilians.  A  human  megaphone  in  the  form  of 
an  artillery  sergeant  stood  on  the  speaker's  table  and  in 
formed  the  multitude  that  they  had  with  them  to-night 
none  other  than  Private  Muscowitz — known  to  the  stage 
'as  Bernard  de  Long,  the  Human  Crab — and  to  prove  that 
he  needed  no  introduction  Private  Muscowitz  himself  ap 
peared  walking  on  his  hands,  politely  lifted  his  trench-cap 
between  his  toes  and  in  a  moment  won  the  public  heart. 

Soldiers,  sailors  and  marines  were  knotted  together  right 
behind  Pontius'  chair  and  in  the  centre-group  stood  an  old- 
time  German  monologist  who  twisted  the  pathetically 
comic  seams  in  his  face  and  continued  to  tell  about  himself. 
The  package  he  held,  wrrapped  in  a  copy  of  the  Evening 
Trombone,  had  split  at  one  end,  revealing  what  appeared 
to  be  the  frazzled  tails  of  a  dress  coat. 

"How  can  you  prove  you  hate  the  Kaiser  ?"  a  red-headed 
bean-pole  of  a  gob  was  leaning  kindly  to  enquire. 

"I  vas  born  in  Roosian  Poland  und  taught  to  hate  'em 
like  a  snake." 

"What  you  got  in  the  package,  Fritz — a  gas  bomb  ?"  asked 
a  sad  marine  whom  the  rest  called  Eddie. 

"Mein  dress-coat  und  vest." 

As  by  magic  he  had  stripped  off  the  Evening  Trombone 
and  was  holding  up  a  shiny,  greenish  ceremonial  garment 
to  whose  lapel  there  clung  tin,  brass,  leather  and  paper 
medals  in  rich  profusion. 

"Mit  dis  I  make  a  funny  talk  aboud  der  Kaiser  for  der 
poys,"  he  insisted  as,  suiting  action  to  words,  he  began 
making  a  rapid  change  of  costume  then  and  there. 

"Tell  it  behind  the  chicken-wire !" 

"Throw  'im  in  the  brig !" 

"Give  'im  the  iron  cross  !" 

"Give  'im  a  chance !" 

The  last  of  the  varying  opinions  seemed  to  win  the  ma- 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  301 

jority,  for  the  much-decorated  alien  was  shoved  forward 
upon  the  arms  of  the  mighty.  The  human  megaphone  be 
gan  roaring  for  order.  At  last  the  shabby  dress-coat  with 
its  solid  front  of  decorations  appeared  on  the  eminence 
while  its  owner  stood  licking  his  lips  after  the  classic  usage 
of  Weber  and  Field. 

"Chendlemens  und  uddus,"  he  began,  "I  vill  now  told  you 
a  leedle  connunderrum.  Vot  iss  de  tifference  betveen  der 
Kaiser  und  a  piece  of  Limburger?" 

The  difference,  though  possibly  essential,  was  never  made 
plain  to  Pontius  Blint,  for  at  that  very  instant  his  eye  had 
wandered  and  fixed  itself  upon  a  sheet  of  paper  half  way 
under  his  chair.  It  was  the  society  page  of  the  Evening 
Trombone  which  the  comedian,  in  his  hasty  change,  had 
cast  aside. 

Centred  in  the  page,  gazing  straight  up  from  a  floreate 
frame,  was  a  full-length  portrait  of  Mrs.  Pontius  Blint. 

Pontius  leaned  painfully  down  and  brought  the  fragment 
within  reading  distance  of  his  nose. 

"Society   Leader   Who   Poses   To-Day   in   Percy 

Follip's     Fashion     Show     at 

Atlantic  City." 

There  was  some  more  about  it  in  the  gushing  write-up 
down  the  column,  but  the  blow  was  sufficient  to  drive  the 
last  nail  into  the  closed  door  of  optimism.  So  this  was 
why  Julia  had  deserted  her  patriotic  work,  left  her  Liberty 
Bond  booth  to  shift  for  itself.  Of  course.  The  strutting, 
arrogant,  silk-stockinged  lot  of  females  were  all  like  that. 
Help,  service,  sacrifice  were  to  them  words  and  poor  ones. 
Percy  Follip,  the  male  dressmaker,  had  lured  her  away 
at  the  crowded  hour  when  America  was  clamouring  for 
the  only  help  she  could  give. 

"I  vill  now  tell  you  aboud  camel-flooge.  Camel-flooge  is 
ven  a  society  lady  buys  a  nine  huntred  und  fifty  tollar  dress 
und  spends  der  change  on  a  Liperty  Bond." 

This  morsel  of  dialectic  wisdom  was  floating  down  from 


302  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

the  speaker's  platform  directly  into  the  tired  ear  of  Pontius 
BHnt.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half-past  two. 
Roughly  he  snatched  a  punctured  meal-ticket  out  of  the 
waiter-lassie's  astonished  grasp.  He  was  neither  surprised 
nor  annoyed  to  find  that  somebody  had  stolen  his  hat ;  taking 
this  minor  outrage  with  due  philosophy,  Pontius  stole 
some  one  else's;  then,  arm  in  arm  with  his  jinx,  passed 
wofully  out  into  the  night. 

II 

Out  by  the  curb,  in  the  ghastly  reflected  light  of  Kidd's 
show-window,  he  descried  the  skeleton  cabman  perched  like 
a  sleeping  bird  on  the  top  of  his  skeleton  cab.  His  battered 
beaver  nodding  forward,  his  scarecrow  of  a  body  hunched 
as  though  broken  in  its  supporting  slat,  he  presented  a 
macabre  picture  of  collapse.  Below  him  the  spring-kneed 
Pansy  companioned  his  dreams,  her  blinders,  her  ears,  her 
mane  flapping,  her  nose  almost  level  with  the  sidewalk. 

"Hi  there !" 

With  one  marvellous  automatic  movement  Jerry  came  to 
an  upright  position,  acting  upon  a  system  of  well-trained 
springs  as  he  brought  the  reins  taut  and  pulled  the  mare's 
pole-like  neck  to  the  spirited  angle  of  a  thoroughbred  at 
the  horse-show. 

"It  do  be  the  fall  weather,  sor,"  explained  the  ever-ready, 
causing  the  double  doors  to  open  mysteriously  like  the  petals 
of  a  sun-kissed  rose.  "As  I  often  says  to  the  Ould  Woman, 
says  I,  'It's  waitin'  round  that  takes  the  hear-r-t  out  of  a 
man.  Rather  would  I  dhrive  a  hundred  miles,'  says  I,  'than 
wait  two  hours  be  th'  cold  an'  rain.  But  that's  the  curse 
av  the  poor,'  says  I,  'to  be  whistlin'  wid  th'  autumn  wind 
while  the  rich  man  dhrinks  fine  wine.' " 

"You'll  be  charging  me  extra  for  that  ?"  snarled  Pontius. 

"It's  already  on  the  bill,  yer  honour.  An'  if  ye'll  git 
aboord,  Gineral,  I'll  be  afther  dhrivin'  ye  to  th'  Hotel 
Astor." 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  303 

m~mm~mm~~ <"""^— ™ ** ^^^~ """"^j 

"Who  ever  mentioned  the  Hotel  Astor?"  enquired  the 
nerve-worn  fare.  "I  said  the  Merlinbilt — and  if  you  take 
me  anywhere  else  it'll  be  to  a  hospital." 

"My  mistake,  sor,"  corrected  Jerry. 

Pontius  was  swearing  softly  as  he  eased  himself  to  the 
footboard  and  he  might  have  continued  the  futile  eloquence 
had  not  the  unexpected  energy  of  Pansy's  dash  toward  the 
East  side  thrown  him  violently  among  the  cushions  and  in 
contact  with  something  sufficiently  gristly  to  erase  all  pres 
ent  troubles  from  his  mind.  The  interior  of  the  cab  was  all 
in  shadow,  but  he  could  feel  it  crowding  against  his  elbow, 
a  soft  and  fluffy  something  which  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  crazy  padding  of  the  cushions.  An  icy  rill  went  down 
his  spinal  marrow.  Gropingly  he  reached  out,  then  sprang 
back  as  though  bitten. 

His  hand  had  come  in  contact  with  a  sleeve,  and  inside 
that  sleeve  there  was  a  soft  human  arm! 

Pontius  Blint  rubbed  his  aching  eyes,  and  when  the  port 
hole  opposite  had  swung  within  the  radius  of  a  street  lamp 
he  braced  himself  and  dared  take  another  look.  A  rather 
small  girl,  her  face  pale  as  the  moon  under  her  dark  velvet 
Tarn  o'  Shanter,  lay  perfectly  still  in  the  corner,  her  body 
huddled,  her  hands  folded.  To  all  appearances  she  was 
lifeless.  There  was  not  a  flutter  of  the  black  lashes  that  lay 
upon  her  cheeks.  Her  mouth,  which  was  small  and  pretty, 
was  fixed  to  a  childlike  droop  which  conveyed  the  idea  both 
of  tragedy  and  of  helplessness. 

A  perfect  finish  for  his  enterprise !  Pontius  Blint  had 
come  to  New  York  to  renew  his  youth,  and  instead  found 
himself  escorting  a  corpse  in  a  hansom  cab. 

Under  such  circumstances  a  fool  will  cry  out,  a  coward 
will  run  away  and  a  wise  man  will  consider  the  case.  De 
spite  what  the  day  and  its  fate  had  done  to  him,  Pontius 
was  a  wise  man.  As  soon  as  he  had  shaken  himself  together 
he  considered  the  advisability  of  driving  at  once  to  a  police 
station.  The  cabman,  undoubtedly  a  mild  lunatic,  might  be 
to  blame  for  all  this,  a  detail  in  some  frightful  plot.  Pontius 


304  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

picked  up  one  of  the  small  hands,  intent  to  see  if  life  still 
lingered.  The  fingers  were  not  rigid,  certainly,  but  they 
gave  poor  evidence,  for  they  were  covered  with  a  black 
glove  of  cheap  quality  and  worn  blue  at  the  finger  ends. 
Carefully  he  put  the  hand  back  beside  its  mate.  And  at 
that  point  a  faint,  monotonous,  not  unpleasant  noise  came 
to  his  ears.  It  had  the  comforting,  home-making  sound 
which  a  cat  gives  forth  in  hours  of  ease  before  an  open 
fire.  He  leaned  down  and  bent  his  ear  close  to  the  nostrils 
of  his  mysterious  fellow  passenger. 

It  was  quite  all  right.  She  was  snoring.  Or  should  we 
use  another  word,  since  the  noise  he  heard  bore  to  a  snore 
the  same  relation  that  the  trill  of  a  silver  flute  bears  to  the 
bawling  of  a  tug-boat  whistle? 

"Poor  child !"  Pontius  found  himself  saying  in  his  fath 
erly  way.  Heartened  by  the  assurance  that  she  was  not 
dead  but  sleeping,  he  gave  her  a  more  careful  scrutiny  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  girl  beside  him  was  one  de 
gree  more  weary,  pathetic  and  world-beaten  than  himself. 
She  wore  one  of  those  thick  and  shapeless  coats  which 
poor  girls  buy  with  a  view  to  many  seasons'  warmth.  Her 
hands,  curled  helplessly  in  her  lap,  reminded  him  of  the 
claws  of  a  little  dead  bird  he  had  once  picked  up,  for  senti 
mental  reasons,  after  an  early  autumn  storm.  The  cheap 
lace  at  her  comely  throat  was  fastened  by  one  of  those 
heart-shaped  turquoise  pins  which  one  may  find  at  any  well- 
stocked  five  and  ten  cent  store.  She  presented  an  appealing 
picture  of  surrender  to  an  unkind  fate,  and  because  she 
was  more  than  usually  pretty 

"By  Jove!"  said  Pontius  Blint,  the  instinct  of  a  well- 
conducted  family  man  coming  to  his  rescue.  What  in  the 
world  was  he  going  to  do  about  it?  This  sort  of  thing 
couldn't  go  on  indefinitely,  you  know.  He  thought  once 
of  consulting  Jerry  upon  this  delicate  point,  and  he  had 
turned  his  eyes  appealingly  toward  the  trap  door,  now 
securely  closed,  when  a  faint  rustling  in  the  space  beside 
him  reclaimed  his  attention  upon  the  girl  of  mystery. 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  305 

She  was  sitting  bolt  upright,  wide  frightened  eyes  burn 
ing  upon  him  out  of  the  patch  of  white  which  was  her  face. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss — I — I  didn't  mean  to  dis 
turb  you,"  he  found  himself  lamely  apologising,  but  the 
words  were  scarcely  out  of  his  mouth  than  she  gave  a  little 
smothered  scream  and  started  to  climb  out  over  the  low 
folding  doors. 

"You  can't  do  that,"  said  he,  restraining  her  somewhat 
roughly,  for  he  had  a  feeling  that  even  at  Pansy's  crawling 
pace  the  leap  might  do  her  harm.  "You're  perfectly  safe 
with  me — don't  get  excited — everything's  all  right." 

He  realised  even  as  he  was  repeating  these  inadequate 
assurances  and  crowding  her  back  to  her  seat  that  this  was 
exactly  what  a  professional  kidnapper  would  say  under 
similar  circumstances. 

"Oh,  please !"  at  last  he  heard  her  voice,  which  was  sweet 
and,  fortunately,  pitched  to  a  low  key.  "Mister,  I  didn't 
do  it.  Honest !  If  you'll  only  let  me  explain.  Oh,  please 
don't  take  me — I  couldn't  stand  it!" 

"What  have  we  here?"  was  old  Pontius'  first  thought, 
which  he  voiced  in  the  kindly  tone  of  which  he  was  always 
capable. 

"My  child,  you  didn't  do  what?  Please  don't  take  you 
where  ?" 

"To  the  station  house,  sir,"  she  said  simply,  but  with  a 
tremolo  that  went  straight  to  his  heart. 

"Please  don't  get  excited,"  he  implored.  "I  give  you  my 
word  I  hadn't  any  intention  of  turning  you  over  to  the 
police." 

"Then  what  for  did  you  grab  out  like  that  when  I  went 
to  jump?" 

Apparently  she  was  a  direct  thinker,  this  frightened  little 
miss. 

"To  tell  you  the  truth  I  didn't  see  any  occasion  to  jump," 
said  he. 

"And  what  for  did  you  get  into  my  cab?" 

"Get  into  your  cab !"  Pontius  whistled.     "I  didn't  know 


306  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

you  were  the  proprietor.  I  had  an  impression  that  I  had 
chartered  this  boat  for  the  evening — I  might  almost  say 
that  I've  bought  it." 

She  sat  stiff  as  a  ramrod  and  in  the  twilight  he  could  see 
her  large  eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  a  stare  which  was  hyp 
notic. 

"Oh,  that  was  it,"  she  said  in  her  small,  crushed  voice. 

"Now  look  here,"  he  spoke  at  last,  and  a  wildwood  doe 
could  not  have  taken  fright  at  his  manner  of  speaking. 
"I'm  not  in  cahoots  with  the  police — in  fact  I've  been  most 
decidedly  against  them  once  or  twice.  If  you're  in  trouble 
— and  haven't  committed  any  real  crime " 

"Indeed,  sir,  before  God  I  haven't !"  Her  pathetic  bird's 
claws  came  together,  and  under  the  flash  of  a  street  lamp 
she  seemed  more  pallid  than  before. 

"Well,  then,"  spoke  the  best  intentioned  man  that  ever 
captained  an  industry,  "whatever's  the  matter  you  can  trust 
me  to  help  square  it.  If  you've  been  given  a  raw  deal — 
well,  I'm  an  international  expert  in  raw  deals.  Why  don't 
you  tell  me  about  it  ?" 

She  had  again  settled  back  into  her  rigid  calm.  Quite 
apparently  she  was  looking  him  over. 

"You  look  to  be  a  kind  gentleman,"  she  at  length  admitted 
with  the  qualification,  "but  not  one  maybe  that  would  have 
great  infloonce." 

"Less  and  less  every  day."  It  was  a  pained  smile  he 
gave  behind  his  cropped  grey  moustache.  "But  as  a  father 
confessor  I  have  no  equal.  And  you'll  admit  that's  some 
thing." 

"That  would  be,"  she  said  as  though  talking  to  herself. 

"In  the  first  place,  then,  what's  your  name  ?" 

"Lizzie  Defoe,"  she  replied  in  the  mechanical  tone  of  a 
child  being  cross-examined  by  a  well-meaning  elder. 

"Related  to  Daniel  ?"  enquired  Pontius,  but  was  ashamed 
of  his  joke  when  she  replied  simply, 

"He  was  my  father,  but  he  died  last  May  fightin'  with 
the  British  Army." 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  307 

"Then  you're  English." 

"English  we  are  not !"  The  response  was  snapped  back 
with  a  promptness  that  explained  which  side  of  St.  George's 
channel  the  Defoes  came  from. 

"Lizzie,  how  did  you  come  to  be  sleeping  in  my  cab  at 
this  peculiar  hour?" 

"I  got  in,  sir.  There  didn't  seem  no  other  place  to  run 
to  when  I  saw  Sergeant  Burger  amongst  the  soldiers  in  the 
big  restaurant." 

"Oh.    And  who  is  Sergeant  Burger  ?" 

"He's  the  fine  American  Marine,  sir,  who  was  keepin' 
company  with  me  and  was  a-standin'  right  there  by  the 
booth  when  the  stylish  gentleman  came  along  and  took  'em." 

"Took  what?" 

"Why,  the  bonds,  sir." 

"Took  the  bonds  out  of  Kidd's  restaurant  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir.    Out  of  the  booth  this  afternoon." 

Of  course.  What  else  could  the  stylish  gentleman  have 
done? 

"Sergeant  Burger  was  standing  by  the  booth  this  after 
noon  when  the  stylish  gentleman  took  the  bonds,"  prompted 
her  examiner,  "so  that  was  the  reason  why  you  were  found 
asleep  in  a  hansom  cab  on  Broadway  at  half  past  two  in 
the  morning." 

"There's  lots  of  other  reasons — such  a  power  of  'em!" 
By  the  way  her  shabby  gloved  hands  went  up  to  her  face 
he  had  a  feeling  that  she  was  beginning  to  cry.  "But  I'm 
that  tired — I  been  all  the  way  to  Jersey  City  and  back — and 
where  I'm  goin'  now  I  don't  know." 

"Why  did  you  go  to  Jersey  City  ?" 

"When  I  found  the  gentleman  took  the  bonds  I  run  away, 
thinkin'  I  could  sleep  with  my  cousin  Susie  Riley — and 
when  I  got  there  she's  got  another  place  and " 

"Let's  begin  somewhere,"  suggested  Pontius,  seeing  that 
this  method  of  telling  the  story  savoured  of  Henry  James 
having  one  of  his  spells.  "As  I  understand  it  you  were  a 


3o8  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^™"""""^^^"^^^*'"^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^"— ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

bond  salesman  somewhere  and  a  gentleman  had  something 
to  do  with  your  running  away." 

"The  grand  lady  that  hired  me  took  me  temporary  a 
week  ago  out  of  an  employment  bureau."  Pontius  had  a 
relieved  feeling  that  she  was  reverting  to  the  straight- from- 
the-beginning  method  of  the  motion  picture  scenario.  "I 
was  to  be  ladies'  maid  and  to  get  my  salary  doubled  on  the 
first  if  I  gave  satisfaction.  I  was  livin'  in  a  boardin'  house 
with  another  girl  at  the  time  and  we  both  got  a  license  to 
sell  Liberty  Bonds,  hopin'  to  win  the  honour  prize  of  the 
St.  Martha's  guild.  I  took  subscriptions  for  four  hundred 
dollars'  worth  when  the  lady  hired  me,  but  after  that  I 
was  that  busy  I  couldn't  call  me  soul  me  own.  I — I  think 
I  was  doin'  very  well  in  the  new  place " 

"I'm  sure  you  were,"  he  encouraged. 

"All  the  rkh  ladies  was  sellin'  Liberty  Bonds  all  over 
town  and  it  was  a  grand  work  to  help  the  country;  and  I 
was  so  anxious  to  sell  a  few  for  myself  that  I  told  my  lady 
one  night  how  I  was  workin'  for  the  St.  Martha's  guild 
prize  with  a  license  to  be  a  saleslady.  'Just  the  thing !'  says 
she;  'sometimes  I'm  that  busy  with  patriotic  work  I  don't 
have  time  to  sell  bonds.' " 

"So  busy  she  couldn't  do  anything!"  snorted  Pontius. 
"I  know  the  sort !" 

"Well,  she  was  workin'  pretty  hard  at  that,  what  with 
meetin's  and  rallies  all  over  town.  And  it  was  yesterday 
afternoon  she  comes  around  to  me  and  says,  'Lizzie,  I'm 
that  distracted  with  duties  I  won't  be  able  to  go  to  me  booth 
to-morrow  at  all.  And  would  you  mind  taking  my  place 
and  helping  the  ladies  with  the  bonds  ?'  So  I  went  to  this 
booth — it  was  yesterday  morning — no,  it  was  this  morn- 
ing " 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  forehead  and  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  her  thoughts. 

"It's  morning  now,"  he  prompted  her. 

"It  seems  so  long  ago,"  she  wailed.  "Yes,  it  was  yes 
terday  mornin'.  It  was  an  awful  responsibility,  but  it  made 


GASLESS  SUNDAY 


me  that  happy.  I  thought  I  might  have  a  chance  to  sell  a 
big  bond  to  one  of  them  millionaires  and  get  the  prize.  But 
the  ladies  in  the  booth  was  there  to  do  all  the  selling  and 
it  was  Lizzie  here  and  Lizzie  there  fetchin'  and  carryin' 
for  them.  There  was  a  great  strong  box  full  of  bonds — 
from  fifty  dollars  up  to  a  thousand — and  another  box  to  put 
the  bills  in  when  they  was  sold.  There  was  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  dollars  worth  of  bonds  in  that  box,  some  of 
'em  in  envelopes  marked  with  the  amount.  And  it  was  one 
of  me  jobs  to  keep  them  envelopes  full  and  marked  with 
the  number.  And  when  a  person  would  come  up  for  a  bond 
it  was  me  that  took  'em  from  the  box  and  gave  it  to  the  lady 
who  was  a-sellin'.  And  I  was  just  crazy  to  sell  one  of  'em." 

"And  didn't  you  get  your  chance  ? 

"Eddie — Sergeant  Burger — stood  by  and  whispered  now 
and  then,  'Your  chance  is  comin' " 

"Ah.     So  Eddie  was  there?" 

"He  was  borrowed  from  the  Marines  to  be  a  guard. 
Eddie  is  a  hero  from  France,  where  he  fought  at  Shadow- 
Terry,  and  he  ain't  afraid  of  anything.  So  I  worked  there 
all  the  morning — and  you'd  better  believe  them  ladies 
worked  too.  You'd  a-thought  they'd  been  in  the  banking 
business  all  their  lives  the  way  they  could  shuffle  the  money 
and  make  change.  We  didn't  none  of  us  have  lunch  until 
three  o'clock,  when  the  crowd  sort  of  got  thin ;  then  them 
ladies  went  away  for  somethin'  to  eat.  Eddie  stuck  around 
and  brought  me  a  sandwich,  sayin'  very  polite,  'Now's  your 
chance,  Miss  Defoe.  I  bet  the  sodas  you'll  catch  a  million 
aire  inside  five  minutes.'  They're  awful  gamblers,  them 
military  men.  Well — it  just  seemed  like  a  stroke  out  of 
heaven  at  that  moment — for  across  the  lobby  comes  a-walk- 
in'  a  very  stylish  gentleman  with  a  fine  gold  beard  and  a 
checked  suit  o'  clothes.  'Is  this  the  young  lady  who's  run- 
nin'  the  booth?'  says  he.  I  was  going  to  answer,  'No,'  but  I 
could  see  Eddie  winkin'  go-ahead-like,  so  I  plucks  up  cour 
age  and  says,  'Will  you  buy  a  bond?'  Til  take  eighteen 
hundred  dollars'  worth,'  says  he.  Just  like  that.  I  had  the 


310  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

key  to  the  strong  box,  but  I  was  that  flustered  what  with 
excitement  and  fear  that  the  ladies  would  come  back  and  be 
angry  that  I  almost  couldn't  turn  the  lock.  If  I  only 
hadn't  done  it !" 

He  could  hear  her  sob  quite  distinctly  now  and  Pontius 
should  be  forgiven  the  fatherly  pat  he  laid  across  her 
slender  knuckles. 

"I'm  sure  you  did  what  was  right,"  he  was  so  rash  as 
to  concede.  This  seemed  to  lend  the  needed  encourage 
ment,  for  she  went  on, 

"I  picked  out  an  envelope  with  a  thousand  dollar  bond 
in  it  and  another  with  five  hundred.  Then  I  counted  out 
three  ones.  Eddie  Burger  helped  me  count  'em  over  again, 
so  I  was  sure  I  was  right.  'Cash  sale  or  credit?'  says  I  to 
the  gentleman  in  the  checked  suit.  'Cash,'  says  he  quite 
careless,  'and  won't  you  put  'em  all  in  one  envelope  so  they 
won't  make  such  a  big  bundle  ?'  " 

Pontius  Blint  was  beginning  to  guess  the  nature  of  poor 
Lizzie's  troubles,  but  he  chimed  in  soothingly, 

"So  you  counted  'em  into  one  envelope." 

"While  I  was  doing  it  the  gentleman  reached  into  his 
inside  pocket  and  brought  out  a  great  big  bale  of  bills.  It 
was  all  in  hundreds,  done  up  neat  as  wax  with  a  strip  of 
paper  round  it.  I  thanked  him  very  kind  and  when  he 
had  put  the  envelope  in  his  pocket  where  the  money  had 
been  Eddie  leans  over  and  whispers,  'Better  count  it !'  'Yes, 
you'd  better  be  sure  it's  right,'  says  the  gentleman  in  the 
checked  suit.  So  I  counted  the  bills  and  Eddie  counted  the 
bills.  But  go  over  them  as  often  as  we  might  there  was  only 
seventeen  hundred  in  the  pile." 

"So  ho !"  said  Pontius  Blint  softly  as  though  to  himself. 

"The  gentleman  seemed  that  worried  when  he  found  the 
bale  was  a  hundred  dollars  short.  'I  got  them  from  a 
friend/  said  he,  'and  I  never  even  counted  them.  Just  give 
the  money  back  to  me.  I'll  take  it  round  to  Charley' — I 
think  he  said  Charley — 'and  have  it  straightened  out.  I'll 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  311 

^"•^^^^^*"^^^^^ 

bring  back  the  right  amount  in  a  few  minutes,'  says  he, 
'and  meanwhile  here's  your  bonds.'  " 

"So  he  gave  you  back  your  bonds?"  Pontius  all  but 
laughed. 

"He  gave  me  back  the  envelope,"  said  the  sad  little  voice. 
"Then  he  went  away  hurried-like  to  find  Charley  who  had 
made  the  mistake.  I  opened  the  strong  box  to  put  back 
the  envelope  he  gave  me  and  I  thought  to  myself,  'Maybe  it 
should  be  counted  again.'  So  I  opened  the  flap — and  my 
God,  what  did  I  see?  Nothin'  but  an  old  wad  of  letters 
and  scrap  paper,  folded  to  look  like  so  many  Liberty 
Bonds !" 

"Poor  child !"  said  Pontius  Blint  with  a  sad  smile.  "You 
fell  for  the  old  trick — of  course  you  would.  He  simply 
substituted  an  envelope  full  of  scrap  paper  and  walked  away 
with  your  bonds." 

"How  was  I  to  know  it?  How  was  I  to  know  it?"  she 
kept  asking  over  and  over.  "I'd  scarcely  never  seen  nothin' 
larger  than  a  ten  dollar  bill  before  in  my  life.  And  to  be 
put  there  countin'  out  thousands  like  a  teller  in  a  bank !" 

"It  was  an  outrage !"  grunted  Pontius  Blint. 

"You're  not  blamin'  me,  too,  are  you,  sir?" 

"I  wasn't  referring  to  you,  my  dear.  But  what  sort  of  a 
woman  would  leave  an  ignorant  girl  in  charge  of  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  dollars?  These  amateurs  make  me  very 
tired.  And  now  I  suppose  she's  blaming  it  all  on  you." 

"I  dunno,  sir.    You  see  I  ran  away." 

"That  was  foolish.  What  did  you  do  with  the  envelope 
the  man  gave  you?" 

"When  I  seen  what  was  inside  it  I  was  that  taken  aback 
I  didn't  dare  tell  anybody.  I  was  going  to  tell  Eddie  Bur 
ger,  knowin'  he'd  find  a  way  out  if  it  could  be  done.  But 
just  then  I  seen  the  ladies  coming  back  from  lunch,  so  I 
opened  the  lid  of  the  box  and  slipped  the  envelope  under 
a  pile  of  bonds.  Then  I  just  simply  walked  out.  I  was  so 
scared  I  was  wild.  I  had  a  date  with  Eddie  to  go  to  the 
movies  and  to  Kidd's  restaurant  for  supper,  but  all  I  could 


312  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

think  of  was  getting  away  before  they  found  out  about 
what  I  done.  I  wandered  over  to  Jersey  City,  afraid  to 
come  back,  but  the  men  talked  so  rough  in  the  parks  that 
I  got  on  the  tube  again,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  Once 
I  thought  of  goin'  back  to  the  lady  where  I  worked  and 
tellin'  her  everything." 

"That  would  have  been  the  wisest  course,"  counselled 
Blint.  "But  I  suppose  the  silk-stockinged  idiot  would  have 
made  a  scene." 

"The  tube  let  me  off  at  Broadway.  By  then  I  was  too 
tired  to  be  scared,  but  everybody  looked  at  me  so  strange 
and  queer  and  once  I  tried  to  run,  because  I  seen  folks 
followin'  me.  Then  there  was  the  cops.  There  seemed 
to  be  nothin'  but  big  blue  officers  all  over  the  street.  Once 
or  twice  I  thought  of  going  up  to  a  policeman  and  tellin' 
him  to  take  me  to  the  station  house  and  be  done  with  it. 
And  at  that  I  seen  Kidd's  restaurant  shinin'  out  of  the 
dark  and  I  thought  of  Eddie  Burger." 

"I  see.    Eddie  and  you  had  a  date  for  supper  at  Kidd's." 

"Yes,  sir.  But  the  first  thing  I  seen  when  I  looked  in  at 
the  crowd  was  Eddie  standin'  by  the  cashier's  desk  glum 
as  a  singed  cat.  I  wanted  to  go  in.  I  wanted  to  call  to 
him.  But  I  was  that  scared  I  just  couldn't — and  around 
the  corner  comes  another  policeman,  swingin'  his  stick  and 
lookin'  straight  at  me.  It  was  all  up,  I  thought,  and  my 
feet  stuck  to  the  sidewalk.  I  turned,  lookin'  for  somethm' 
to  crawl  into.  And  there  stood  this  hansom  cab,  the  driver 
fast  asleep  on  the  box.  'Folks  that  comes  in  carriages  ain't 
wanted  by  the  police,'  I  thought,  and  with  that  I  walked  into 
the  carriage,  proud  as  a  duchess. 

"It  happened  to  be  my  cab,"  grinned  Pontius. 

"Did  I  do  wrong,  sir?"  Another  slanting  street  lamp's 
ray  showed  him  that  helpless  look  which  appealed  to  every 
corner  of  his  chivalry. 

"My  child,"  said  Pontius,  "you  were  certainly  very  fool 
ish  to  have  run  away,  because  that  puts  a  bad  face  on  the 
matter.  If  your  story's  straight — and  I  know  the  foolish- 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  313 

ness  of  society  women  enough  to  believe  every  word  of  it — 
then  you  should  have  faced  the  music  and  you  would  have 
been  able  to  put  the  blame  where  it  really  should  lie." 

"And  where  should  it  lay?"  she  echoed. 

"With  your  mistress."  Pontius  was  ever  so  positive 
about  that. 

"You  think  so,  sir?" 

"By  all  means.  There  are  too  many  bediamonded  dames 
around  the  country  making  a  great  bluff  about  winning  the 
war  and  doing  nothing  more  than  get  their  silly  pictures 
in  the  papers.  These  gabbling  females  who  think  that  the 
Western  Front  is  at  Newport  and  that  they  can  stop  hos 
tilities  by  cutting  the  Kaiser  socially.  I'm  of  the  opinion 
that  this  woman  who  employs  you  is  a  she-jackass.  An 
example  ought  to  be  made  of  her.  By  Jove,  I  will  make 
an  example  of  her !  I'll  see  that  she  has  to  make  good  the 
sum  of  money  lost  through  her  carelessness — I'll  fight  it  out 
in  the  courts  if  necessary.  It  will  be  a  fine  object-lesson  to 
show  these  satin-finished  slackers  that  this  is  something 
more  than  a  charity  benefit." 

"Then — then  you  think — that  I  won't  have  to  pay  back 
that  eighteen  hundred?"  asked  Lizzie  Defoe  quaintly,  just 
as  though  she  could  if  she  had  to. 

"I'll  pay  it  myself  first." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir!" 

Possibly  she  would  have  said  more  had  not  the  cabman, 
roused  from  his  cross-town  sleep,  opened  the  hatchway 
above. 

"Dhrunk  an'  talkin'  to  himself !"  said  he  pleasantly. 

"What  do  you  want,  if  anything?"  asked  Pontius,  less 
genially  than  in  his  previous  conversation. 

"If  it  please  yer  honour,  was  it  the  Hotel  Wahldoff-As- 
tory  ye  was  a-goin'  to  ?" 

"Merlinbilt,  you  fool!    Hotel  Merlinbilt!" 

"Thank  ye,  Gineral."    The  little  trap  door  banged  to. 

When  Pontius  looked  again  at  Lizzie  Defoe  he  beheld 
quite  a  new  person,  for  she  had  pushed  open  the  folding 


314  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

doors  and  was  again  making  as  though  to  jump  out  into 
the  night. 

"See  here !"  said  Pontius,  now  slightly  ruffled.  "What's 
all  this?" 

"Did  you  say — you  live  at  the  Hotel  Merlinbilt?"  she 
asked,  her  hands  braced  between  the  porthole  window  and 
the  door. 

"That's  where  I'm  stopping.    But  then " 

"Excuse  me,  mister.  Please  don't  take  me  near  there — 
I  shouldn't  be  goin'  by  the  Merlinbilt." 

She  fell  back,  as  though  too  weak  to  follow  her  desperate 
plan. 

"Why  ?    Is  there  anything  the  matter  with  it  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.    It — it's  the  place  where  I  was  a-workin'." 

Pontius  looked  at  her  a  puzzled  minute,  then  more  under- 
standingly  out  into  the  street  where  the  dim  fagade  of  the 
Merlinbilt  was  already  swinging  into  view. 

"Say,  what's  the  name  of  the  lady  who  employed  you?" 
"tie  asked  ever  so  gently. 

"Mrs.  Pontius  Blint,"  said  she  and  wearily  closed  her 
eyes. 

in 

The  ormolu  clock  over  the  mantel  in  Mrs.  Blint's  pink 
dressing  room  was  just  arranging  its  golden  hands  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  indicate  the  hour  of  seven.  Pontius  Blint 
had  chosen  his  wife's  dainty  Empire  chaise  longue  upon 
which  to  stretch  himself  and  on  a  costly  satin  pillow  he 
had  elevated  that  mound  of  flannel,  grease,  and  absorbent 
cotton  which  contained  his  suffering  foot.  A  hotel  boy  had 
brought  him  some  nasty  black  salve  from  an  all-night  drug 
store  and  Pontius,  having  smeared  the  gouty  area  and  left 
several  indelible  ichthyol  stains  upon  the  surrounding  up 
holstery,  had  fallen  back  among  the  cushions  with  the  idea 
of  waiting  until  Julia  returned  or  something  definite  hap 
pened. 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  stay  and  die  quietly;  but 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  315 

his  one  prayer  was  that  life  should  linger  until  his  wife's 
return,  because  he  had  composed  a  dying  speech  which 
would  compensate  in  many  ways  for  his  life  of  silent  en 
durance.  He  had  resolved  to  tell  Julia  just  what  he  thought 
of  her  now,  had  thought  of  her  for  years,  and  to  do  this 
artistically  it  was  essential  that  he  should  not  pass  away  too 
soon. 

"Such  women  as  you" — he  lay  repeating  to  himself  the 
opening  lines  of  his  yet-to-be-famous  speech — "do  the  gov 
ernment  far  more  harm  than  Bolshevism,  defeatism  or 
anarchy.  You  turn  Liberty  into  a  pink  tea  and,  by  gad, 
take  all  the  sanctity  out  of  patriotism." 

In  spite  of  himself  Pontius  began  to  drowse.  The  couch 
on  which  he  lay  was  so  cunningly  adapted  to  the  lines  of  the 
figure  that  he  found  himself  yielding  to  its  effeminate  in 
fluences.  Muscle  by  muscle  he  relaxed.  His  foot  disturbed 
him  less,  but  his  eyes  rolled  like  burning  coals  in  volcanic 
craters.  He  yawned. 

"Such  women  as  you  .  .  .  such  women  do  the  govern 
ment  more  harm  than  capitalism  .  .  .  such  women  .  .  . 
Bolshevism  .  .  ." 

He  opened  his  eyes  gradually  upon  broad  daylight  and 
sitting  in  a  slender  gilt  chair  beside  him  he  beheld  a  badly 
drawn  and  badly  damaged  portrait  of  Mrs.  Pontius  Blint. 
His  first  feeling  was  that  he  would  let  the  artist  sue  for 
his  money — he  wouldn't  pay  for  such  a  daub.  Good  heav 
ens,  her  hat  was  on  crooked,  a  strand  of  titian-dyed  hair 
was  draggling  loose.  She  looked  positively  dirty — and  what 
in  the  world  was  that  smudge  running  from  one  of  her 
expensively  arched  eyebrows  to  the  bridge  of  her  enam 
elled  nose? 

"Well,  Pontius,  is  this  any  time  for  you  to  get  yourself 
laid  up?" 

It  was  her  voice  and  the  way  she  said  it  that  at  once 
convinced  him  that,  however  outwardly  changed,  this  was 
Julia  herself  and  not  a  poor  reproduction.  She  seemed  to 
have  dressed  herself  hastily  out  of  a  ragbag.  Possibly 


316  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Percy  Follip's  fashion  show  had  degenerated  into  one  of 
those  hard-time  parties  they  used  to  give  out  in  the  country 
districts.  But  what  was  she  doing  with  her  dress  all  spat 
tered  with  mud  and  her  white  gloves  the  colour  of  dusting 
rags? 

"'Well,  what  in  thunder's  the  matter  with  you?"  he 
asked  croakingly,  glancing  up  at  the  ormolu  clock,  which 
was  pointing  to  nine,  and  convincing  himself  that  he  was 
not  dreaming. 

"I've  just  got  back,"  she  infomed  him  with  a  deep- 
drawn  sigh. 

Quite  disregarding  the  poor  condition  in  which  she  had 
returned,  he  reverted  to  his  dying  speech  and  opened  up 
thickly, 

"Such  women  as  you  do  the  Government  far  more  .  .  ." 

"No  wonder  you've  got  gout,"  she  snapped  him  up. 
"You've  been  drinking — in  times  like  these — and  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"You  will  have  your  joke,"  he  replied.  "I  didn't  expect 
you  to  take  it  seriously — I  might  have  fallen  out  of  an 
airship  into  the  City  Hall  for  all  you  would  know  about  it." 

This  sudden  attack  silenced  her  for  a  moment  and  seemed 
to  offer  an  orational  pause,  so  he  opened  up  thickly, 

"Such  women  as  you  .  .  .  women  do  the  Government 
far  more  .  .  ." 

"Are  you  crazy  or  are  you  ill?"  asked  his  fond  wife,  set 
tling  back  into  her  chair  and  eyeing  him  through  her  dis- 
hevellment. 

"I  should  like  to  ask  you  exactly  the  same  question,"  he 
replied,  struggling  to  arise  and  groaning  as  he  did  so. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  coming  to  New  York  ?" 
she  queried  sharply.  "I  could  have  made  use  of  you." 

"I  think  you've  made  enough  use  of  me,  Madam."  Here 
was  a  splendid  opening !  "Call  me  away  from  my  important 
work  under  the  pretext  that  you  wanted  me  to  buy  bonds — 
then  I  find  you  gadding  about  after  some  idiotic  society 
show " 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  317 

"Pontius,  I  don't  want  you  to  speak  that  way !"  she  said, 
and  it  came  upon  him  with  a  sudden  pity  that  her  eyes 
looked  tired  and  dreadfully  old. 

"Do  you  expect  me  to  quote  poetry?"  he  resumed.  "I've 
been  all  the  evening  trying  to  square  one  of  your  fool  mis 
takes." 

She  merely  raised  her  plucked  eyebrows  which  seemed 
at  that  moment  worn  to  a  frayed  shred. 

"You  went  away  and  calmly  left  an  ignorant  servant  in 
charge  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of 
bonds." 

"What's — what's  happened  to  Lizette?"  she  asked  with 
sudden  anxiety. 

"Lizette — my  word !  Why  don't  you  call  things  by  their 
right  names?  If  you  mean  Lizzie  Defoe ; 

"She  hasn't  stolen  any?"  asked  his  wife,  emerging  from 
her  lethargy. 

"Worse  than  that.  A  bunko  man  has  come  along  and 
cheated  her  out  of  eighteen  hundred  dollars'  worth.  And 
of  course  I've  got  to  make  good." 

"I  might  have  known  that  girl  couldn't  be  trusted,"  was 
all  the  comment  she  made. 

"Always  pass  the  buck  to  the  working  girl !  Of  course 
it  wasn't  your  fault.  You  had  more  important  things  to  do. 
You  had  to  be  at  Atlantic  City  prancing  round  the  ring  with 
Percy  Follip " 

"Percy  Follip !"  she  echoed. 

"Well,  haven't  you?" 

"Pontius,  has  that  poison  gas  gone  to  your  head  ?" 

"Didn't  I  see  your  picture  in  the  Evening  Trombone,  big 
as  a  three-sheet  poster  ?" 

"I  never  read  the  Trombone,  she  responded  with  a 
shrug.  Apparently  she  was  not  too  tired  to  be  a  snob.  But 
then  she  added,  "I've  been  too  busy  to  read  the  papers." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  Percy  has  kept  you  changing  gown  after 
gown." 

The  eyes  which  he  had  always  regarded  as  hard  as  blue 


318  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

china  plates  became  suffused  with  a  moisture  which,  ac 
cording  to  his  previous  belief,  could  never  come  there. 

"Perhaps  if  you'd  paid  a  little  attention  to  your  family," 
she  said  in  the  broken  voice  of  an  old  woman,  "you'd  know 
better  than  to  think  such  things." 

"I'm  sorry,"  was  the  next  paragraph  of  his  carefully 
prepared  Philippic. 

"This  morning,  or  rather  yesterday  morning  early,  another 
hospital  ship  came  in,"  he  heard  her  explaining.  "The  in 
fluenza  has  caused  a  dreadful  shortage  of  nurses  and  last 
week  I  promised  to  do  what  I  could.  So  when  the  call  came 
I  took  Anderson  and  the  car  and  went  down  to  the  dock. 
It  was  dreadful,  Pontius — and  yet  there  was  something 
splendid  and  beautiful  about  it.  A  lot  of  the  soldiers  died 
on  the  way  over;  some  of  them  died  as  they  were  being 
moved.  I  rolled  up  my  sleeves  and  did  what  I  could.  I 
never  realised  what  a  helpless  fool  I'd  been  raised  to 

Pontius  sat  up  and  brought  his  swaddled  foot  thump- 
ingly  to  the  floor. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  been — doing  something?" 

"You  don't  think  I've  been  staying  up  all  night — look 
ing  like  this — for  the  fun  of  it."  She  swept  a  messy  glove 
over  a  muddy  skirt. 

"Where's  Doris?"  he  asked,  shooting  his  last  feeble  bul 
let.  "It  seems  to  me  she  ought  to  have  been  helping  too." 

"Doris?  She's  still  at  work.  I  couldn't  make  her  go  to 
bed.  She's  driving  with  the  Woman's  Motor  Corps,  you 
know." 

Pontius  sat  and  blinked  like  an  owl,  and  like  an  owl 
his  head  was  whirling  round  and  round.  He  heard  the 
telephone  ring,  a  muffled  note,  and  saw  his  wife  nervously 
spring  toward  the  receiver. 

"Oh,"  he  heard  her  saying.  "Yes,  I'm  sorry — but  of 
course  I  told  you  I  couldn't  possibly  go.  Is  it  as  serious  as 
that?  Yes,  we're  still  up.  Yes,  we'll  be  ever  so  glad  to 
see  you,  I'm  sure." 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  319 

r*"* """"""" **"""" ~ ^ ~«— ^ — .n^ ••_ ^ 

"Is  that  Doris  now?"  asked  the  perfectly  reduced  hus 
band. 

"It's  Percy  Follip,"  she  explained  while  she  preened  be 
fore  the  mirror,  faint  reflections  of  her  vanity  returning  as 
she  stood  arranging  her  eccentric  coiffure  and  making  hasty 
attempts  to  powder  her  nose.  "My  word,  what  a  fright  I 
look !" 

"Nine  o'clock !"  groaned  the  battered  Blint.  "Well,  that's 
the  fashionable  hour  for  a  call,  only  he's  chosen  the  wrong 
end  of  the  day." 

The  jangling  of  the  doorbell  brought  Mrs.  Blint  again 
to  attention.  Out  in  the  lobby  Pontius  could  hear  words 
of  greeting  between  his  wife's  soprano  and  an  effeminate 
voice  only  a  trifle  less  shrill  than  her  own. 

"Most  unconventional  hour — I'm  sure,  my  dear  Mrs.  Blint, 
you'll  think  me  no  end  of  a  bounder — very  disastrous — 
quite  silly  all  around." 

"Pontius,  do  you  think  you  could  come  into  the  drawing 
room,  or  is  your  foot  too  bad?"  asked  his  wife,  returning 
to  the  boudoir  after  a  faraway  parley. 

"I'm  beyond  either  joy  or  pain,"  he  told  her,  yet  per 
mitted  her  to  help  him  with  his  coat  and  support  him 
across  the  hall.  Many  years  of  it  had  accustomed  her  to 
Pontius'  gout. 

In  the  panelled  drawing  room  he  found  a  lithe  gentleman 
with  a  thin  golden  beard,  a  checked  suit  and  a  barber's  pole 
necktie,  who  arose  mincingly  and  simpered, 

"Ah,  Mr.  Blint,  in  times  like  these  one  must  be  prepared 
for  anything,  must  one  not?" 

"One  must,"  gloomed  old  Pontius.  "And  what's  the 
great  war  crisis  now?" 

"The  first  night  of  my  style  show  was  nearly  ruined,"  he 
mourned  dramatically. 

"I  hope  the  Kaiser  doesn't  hear  about  that !"  Pontius  sym 
pathised. 

"The  feature  of  the  evening,  you  see,  was  to  be  a  series 
of  rapid  sketches  by  the  great  modern  colourist,  Fortescue 


320  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Klotz.  As  he  worked  fashionable  ladies,  robed  in  the  styles 
illustrated,  were  to  march  across  the  stage.  But  Klotz, 
like  all  geniuses,  is  peculiar.  It  is  impossible  for  him  to 
work  without  the  original  drawings  before  him  as  refer 
ences." 

"And  you've  lost  the  original  drawings,"  spluttered  Pon 
tius.  "Of  course  I'm  just  the  man  to  come  to  about  that." 

"The  originals  were  made  in  Paris  by  Andre  Carnot,  and 
I  had  them — just  as  they  came  on  thin  paper  for  conven 
ient  transportation — in  an  envelope  in  my  inside 
pocket " 

"Don't  bother  with  the  rest  of  your  story,"  said  Pontius, 
grinning  his  old  grin.  "You  went  to  Mrs.  Blint's  booth 
yesterday  afternoon  at  about  three,  asked  for  eighteen  hun 
dred  dollars'  worth  of  bonds,  got  the  wrong  change  and  in 
the  mix-up  gave  the  saleslady  the  envelope  full  of  French 
sketches." 

"My  Lord,  Pontius!"  said  Mrs.  Blint,  and,  "My  dear 
sir !"  chirped  Mr.  Follip. 

"It's  getting  on  toward  bed-time,"  continued  the  man  of 
affairs,  "so  there's  no  use  spoiling  the  day  with  explana 
tions.  Julie,  if  you'll  go  back  to  the  service  section  you'll 
find  'Lizzie  Defoe  awake  and  crying." 

"Lizette?  How  do  you  know  she's  awake?"  Julia  got 
in  her  oar. 

"She  had  a  good  nap  in  the  cab." 

This  was  Pontius'  contribution  to  the  dialogue  before 
Lizzie  Defoe,  who*  too  apparently  had  been  awake  and 
crying,  was  brought  in,  dressed  exactly  as  she  was  when 
Pontius  sent  her  to  bed. 

"That's  the  gentleman  who  took  the  bonds!"  she  ex 
claimed  almost  as  soon  as  she  had  got  into  the  room. 

"I  wouldn't  part  with  those  sketches  for  ten  thousand 
dollars,"  vowed  the  voice  through  the  golden  beard.  "My 
dear  young  woman,  could  you  tell  me  what  you  did  with 
them?" 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  321 

"They're  in  the  strong  box  under  a  pile  of  bonds  where 
I  put  the  envelope." 

"You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Blint  wearily.  "They're  perfectly 
safe." 

"Now  please  don't  cry,"  pleaded  Pontius,  noting  alarming 
symptoms  on  the  part  of  his  wife's  maid.  "Just  go  to  bed — 
and  sleep  this  time." 

"My  word !  When  did  you  become  housekeeper  ?"  asked 
Julia,  but  Pontius  hadn't  finished  the  day  yet. 

"Julie,"  he  said  meekly,  "are  you  going  to  take  Mr. 
Follip  down  to  the  booth  to  get  his  sketches  ?" 

"I  suppose  so — since  there's  nobody  else  in  the  house 
capable  of  getting  anything  straight." 

"Well,  there's  something  I  want  you  to  fix  up  for  me, 
since  I'm  too  sick  to  move." 

Poor  Lizzie  Defoe,  more  confused  than  ever,  was  now 
sliding  away  toward  the  service  section. 

"Lizzie." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Bring  me  two  subscription  blanks  and  do  it  now." 

"You  ought  to  have  a  doctor,"  exclaimed  his  wife,  pulling 
off  a  glove  and  laying  her  hand  on  his  hot  forehead. 

"I'm  going  to  be  sick  for  two  weeks,"  he  reassured  her, 
"and  believe  me,  it'll  be  the  time  of  my  life." 

Lizzie  Defoe  came  tiptoeing  back  with  two  tan-coloured 
squares  of  cardboard. 

"Now,  Follip,"  said  Pontius  briskly,  shaking  the  ink  down 
in  his  fountain  pen,  "are  you  carrying  those  bonds  round 
with  you?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Blint — but  I  haven't  got  my  drawings 
back " 

"You  have  my  word — and  it's  still  pretty  good — that 
you'll  get  'em  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Blint  opens  the  box." 

Mr.  Follip  rather  tremblingly  handed  over  his  envelope. 

"Here's  my  check  for  eighteen  hundred,"  said  Pontius, 
tearing  a  sheet  from  a  brown  book.  "That's  a  cash  trans 
action." 


322  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

f™ ^         **• ~^^~ ^^^^^ 

"Yes — but  I  was  intending  to  buy " 

"I'm  coming  to  that."  Pontius  was  scribbling  in  his 
fussy  hand  across  the  face  of  a  subscription  blank.  "I'm 
making  this  out  for  twenty-five  hundred.  You  won't  mind 
making  it  a  little  extra,  now  that  you're  going  to  get  your 
drawings  back.  Sign  here,  please." 

Pontius  furnished  the  fountain  pen  and  when  Percy 
Follip,  saying  not  a  word  but  blinking  like  a  Maltese  cat, 
had  added  his  ornate  signature,  it  was  Pontius  who  in  the 
most  businesslike  way  handed  the  blank  over  to  Lizzie 
Defoe. 

"Maybe  that'll  help  a  little  bit  for  the  St.  Martha's  prize," 
he  barked  out. 

"Pontius,  what  in  the  world?"  Julia  was  beginning  when 
he  interrupted  her  drily. 

"I'm  coming  to  that,"  he  growled,  almost  savagely  shak 
ing  the  pen  another  time  as  he  tackled  the  second  blank, 
scribbled  fussily  and  thrust  it  into  her  hands. 

"That  might  add  to  the  day's  business  in  your  booth," 
was  the  length  and  breadth  of  his  crusty  speech  as  his 
wife  stood  turning  the  card  this  way  and  that. 

"But  Pontius — you  can't  mean  this.  It's  for  a  million 
dollars." 

"All  I  can  afford,"  he  grunted.  "And  now  please  take 
him  away  and  let  me  be  sick  in  peace." 

Julia,  however,  refused  to  take  Mr.  Follip  away  until 
she  had  deposited  her  husband  in  the  spare  bedroom  and, 
insisting  that  he  was  a  better  financier  than  surgeon,  re- 
wrapped  his  foot  into  a  smooth  parcel  of  black  salve  and 
gauze. 

The  telephone  rang. 

"It's  Jerry,"  moaned  Pontius,  already  half  asleep.  "Tell 
him  I  died." 

"He's  intoxicated,  I  think,"  explained  Mrs.  Blint,  turn 
ing  from  the  telephone.  "He  says  he  wants  to  talk  to  you 
about  gasolene  or  something " 


GASLESS  SUNDAY  323 

Pontius  got  the  instrument  in  his  clutch. 

"Hello,  yer  honour.  I  was  askin'  afther  yer  health. 
Mebbe  ye'd  be  afther  feelin'  wor-r-rse  as  th'  day  goes  on. 
We'll  never  be  young  agin,  sor." 

"Who  the  devil  told  you  to  wait  ?" 

"Waitin's  me  job,  sor.  While  th'  rich  dhrinks  his  fine 
wine  th'  poor  man  must  wait  out  in  th'  wind  an'  weather." 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you?" 

"From  twelve  to  nine,  Gineral.  And  I'd  sooner  dhrive 
a  hundhred  mile  than  wait  an  hour." 

"I  can't  do  that  sum.    Come  down  to  figures." 

"Make  it  nine  dollars,  sor." 

Pontius  had  just  strength  to  whistle. 

"You'll  never  get  a  taxi  at  that  rate." 

"Nor  do  I  want  wan  o'  thim  things.  What  wud  I  be  doin' 
wid  Pansy,  says  I.  Sell  her  to  a  rag  man,  says  you.  Bad 
cess  to  'em,  ther's  never  been  a  ragpicker  in  the  Sullivan 
family  nor  a  hangman  nayther.  An'  I  see  be  th'  papers 
that  Profissor  Gar-r-rfield  do  be  afther  stoppin'  gasless 
Sunda  from  this  day  on. 

"Go  round  to  the  desk  and  collect,"  said  Pontius  wearily 
as  he  hung  up. 

"You'd  better  get  some  sleep,"  said  Julia,  hanging  over 
his  pillow. 

"Do  me  two  favours,"  he  whispered.  "Ask  the  man  at 
the  desk  to  give  Jerry  twenty-five  dollars." 

"What's  the  other  one  ?" 

"Give  me  a  kiss." 

After  that  she  waited  a  few  minutes  to  see  if  the  medi 
cine  had  taken  effect.  Apparently  he  was  under  its  influ 
ence,  for  out  of  dreamland  she  could  hear  him  gibbering 
into  his  pillow, 

"Such  women  as  you  do  the  Government  far  more  .  .  . 
far  more  harm  than  Bolshy  .  .  ." 

She  found  Mr.  Follip  waiting  impatiently  and  led  him 
forth  to  her  booth,  where  she  resumed  her  day's  work. 


IX 
MOTHER'S  MILK 


IT  was  while  the  winter's  third  bumper  harvest  of  snow 
lay  shocked  along  Manhattan's  gutters,  putting  on  a 
deep  coat  of  grime  in  apology  for  the  Street  Cleaning 
Department's  annual  break-down,  that  Miss  Rosa  Peabody 
came  loitering  down  West  End  Avenue,  returning  home 
from  church  with  her  Boly  Pawley.  She  was  slender,  ani 
mated  and  nicely  clad,  and  he — despite  the  name  which 
indicated  a  Papuan  savage — was  of  the  city  type,  some 
what  saurian  in  his  graceful  lines.  The  Pawley  parents 
had  originally  christened  him  J.  Bolingbroke,  innocent  of 
the  abbreviation  which  was  to  brand  him  through  life.  He 
wore  a  silk  hat,  sealskin  collar,  light-topped  boots  and 
pallid  gloves.  His  walk  was  inclined  to  delicacy.  He  had 
a  knobby  little  face  whose  most  distinguishing  feature  was 
a  tiny,  furry  moustache  of  butterfly  pattern.  His  father 
was  associated  with  the  Peabodys  in  the  retail  drug  busi 
ness  and  Boly  had  been  paired  off  with  Rosa  several  seasons 
ago. 

To-day  as  they  sauntered  along  Rosa  was  indulging  in 
her  favourite  puzzle :  What  to  do  with  Boly  ?  She  was 
very  pretty,  a  >ifle  taller  than  he  and  heiress  to  a  large 
share  of  the  Jumbo  Drug  Stores,  Inc.  She  had  small, 
sparkling  black  eyes  and  hair  which  was  as  fine  and  almost 
as  light  as  thistle  down ;  and  as  often  happens  with  city 
girls  of  the  upper  middle  class,  she  was  gymnasium  trained, 
outdoor-loving,  healthy  and  wholesome.  Her  skirts  fell 
well  below  the  tops  of  her  tan  spats,  her  brown  coat  and 

324 


MOTHER'S  MILK  325 

small  hat  were  trimmed  modestly  with  very  expensive  fur. 

"We'll  never  catch  up  with  mother,"  she  was  warning 
Boly,  who  spied  the  maternal  plume  bobbing  half  a  block 
ahead. 

Boly  was  listlessly  attentive.  It  was  impossible  for  him 
to  consider  two  ideas  at  the  same  time. 

"Fred  Stone's  got  a  new  show — funny  stuff." 

"Is  that  what  you've  been  thinking  about  all  during 
church?" 

"What  say  I  rope  in  a  gang,"  was  Boly's  oblique  reply, 
"and  give  a  theatre  party,  say  about  Tuesday?" 

"You're  probably  borrowing  money  on  your  allowance," 
chided  Rosa  with  that  maternal  air  she  reserved  for  him 
alone. 

"You've  said  something!"  His  Boston  terrier  eyes  gave 
her  a  sly  look ;  he  loved  to  be  twitted  of  his  dissipations. 

"You've  been  running  a  regular  Roman  circus  all  the 
month.  I've  a  good  mind  to  tell  your  father." 

"He'll  know  all  about  it  on  the  First,"  Boly  assured  her 
with  a  gloomy  sigh.  "But  say!  Let's  have  a  touch  o' 
life!" 

"I'll  tell  you  what!"  Rosa  had  an  inspiration.  "Why 
not  put  off  the  party  till  late  next  week?" 

"What's  on?"  he  asked,  unimpressed. 

"My  Cousin  Fluff  is  coming  down  to  visit  me." 

"Ouch !     Say  it  again." 

"Her  company  name  is  Florence  Annister.  She's  coming 
down  to-morrow." 

"Coming  down!     From  Heaven  or  something?" 

"From  Burgeonville." 

"Burgeonville  to  New  York — quite  a  come-down  all 
right !"  He  gave  the  speech  the  benefit  of  his  superior 
irony. 

"Boly,  you  impudent  pup !  Father  was  born  in  Burgeon 
ville,  so  was  his  favourite  daughter.  All  the  virtues  come 
from  Burgeonville." 

"They  come  early  I  guess." 


326  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"For  the  original  see  Joe  Miller's  Joke  Book."  She  was 
a  little  weary  of  Boly's  pepper-and-salt  style  of  conversation, 
so  she  went  on  in  a  soberer  key.  "I  really  want  you  to  know 
Fluff." 

"What  does  she  look  like?" 

"Me." 

"Score  one  for  Fluff." 

"At  least  she  did.  I  saw  her  about  eleven  years  ago 
when  Father  took  me  to  Uncle  Eric's  funeral  in  Burgeon- 
ville.  Fluff  and  I  were  both  little  brats  then.  We  had  a 
bitter  quarrel  because  she  said  my  doll  had  no  style." 

"I'll  stand  by  you,  Rosie,"  he  staunchly  assured  her. 
"If  she  needs  her  prayer  meeting  Wednesday  nights  I'll 
be  there  with  a  sleigh.  I'll  buy  her  any  amount  of  root 
beer,  take  her  to  see  the  Liberty  Statue  and " 

"She  won't  be  so  bad  as  that,"  broke  in  Rosa  over- 
emphatically.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  was  wondering  if 
Cousin  Fluff  mightn't  be  worse. 

"Don't  jolly  me  along,"  Boly  was  protesting.  "She'll 
want  somebody  to  help  her  look  at  the  family  album  on 
rainy  days  and  when  the  sun  comes  out  it  will  be  Fluff  for 
the  Seeing  New  York  rubberneck  tour.  If  you  really  ask 
me  to,  Rosie,  I'll  follow  till  I  lose  my  umbrella." 

"Things  aren't  as  awful  as  you  think!" 

"Things  usually  are,"  he  replied  with  a  weeping  philos 
ophy  more  profound  than  she  gave  him  credit  for. 

"You  aren't  sore  are  you,  Boly?" 

"You  bet  I  am!" 

"Why?" 

"When  a  girl  asks  you  to  be  nice  to  another  girl  for  her 
sake  it  indicates  one  of  two  things.  Either  the  other  girl 
is  a  lemon  or  the  girl  thinks  you're  such  a  boob  she  doesn't 
care  whether  she  loses  you  or  not — oh,  you  know  what  I 
mean !" 

They  had  now  reached  the  big  pile  of  Nuremberg  archi 
tecture  at  the  corner  from  which  the  Peabodys  paid  their 
bills  and  sped  their  stately  motor  car.  Mrs.  Peabody, 


MOTHER'S  MILK  327 

plump,  pretty  and  pleasant,  stood  in  the  doorway  and  called 
down  the  steps, 

"Hurry,  children!" 

"It  seems  to  me  you  ought  to  let  me  be  nice  to  you  once 
in  a  while  without  handing  me  something  from  Burgeonville 
to  hold,"  he  was  persisting  in  his  lamentation. 

"Why  can't  you  be  good,  Boly?" 

"I've  been  in  love  with  you  ever  since — ever  since  I 
learned  to  smoke " 

"Don't  let's  go  over  all  that  now " 

"All  right,  then." 

He  raised  his  hat  with  the  ceremony  of  a  stage  ambas 
sador  and  advanced  a  pale-gloved  hand. 

"Please  don't  go  away  in  a  peev.  Let's  give  poor  Fluff 
a  continuous  performance  next  week.  I'll  be  eternally 
grateful  to  you  if  you  help.  Have  your  theatre  party  and 
we'll  give  a  series  of  fiestas  and  send  Fluff  back  up-State 
full  of  enthusiasm.  I'm  tremendously  serious.  I  do  so 
want  her  to  have  a  good  time.  It's  a  long  story,  but  I 
don't  think  she's  had  any  too  much  fun  in  her  life." 

"Oh,  well,  if  you  put  it  on  those  grounds/'  he  replied 
with  a  sainted  smile  and  took  his  departure. 

The  Peabodys  were  of  the  class  which  the  Bolsheviki 
damn  with  the  word  Bourgeois.  Garrett  Peabody  had  made 
a  plentiful  supply  of  money — made  it  with  both  hands  and, 
as  the  saying  goes,  stood  on  it  with  both  feet.  This  some 
what  old-fashioned  pressed  brick  house,  gleaming  with 
plate  glass,  shining  with  polished  brass,  represented  Pea- 
body's  ideal ;  comfort  and  solidity  in  a  neighbourhood  which 
was  not  irksomely  ostentatious. 

The  dining  room  in  which  the  Peabodys  were  taking 
their  two  o'clock  Sunday  dinner  was  a  model  of  this  very 
comfort  and  solidity.  The  furniture  was  of  golden  oak, 
machine  carved,  the  chairs  deeply  upholstered  in  green 
leather.  The  windows  were  draped  in  heavy  plush  of  a 
petunia  shade,  festoon  upon  festoon  hanging  from  cornice 


328  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

to  floor,  each  loop  being  knotted  with  a  silken  cord  as  thick 
as  a  man's  forefinger;  there  was  an  old-gold  placque  em 
broidered  in  the  centre  of  each  festooned  valance  above  the 
windows.  The  mantelpiece  had  a  fanciful  pagoda-shaped 
top  with  many  small  mirrors.  There  were  mirrors,  too,  in 
the  side-board  which  reflected  pot-bellied  silver  of  florid 
design. 

In  the  South  wall  of  the  big  room  the  doors  of  the 
Fernery  were  open,  showing  under  its  glass  roof  the  sides 
of  an  infinite  variety  of  rubber-plants,  ferns,  palms,  foliage 
plants.  At  a  lavish  expenditure  of  New  York  real  estate 
Mrs.  Peabody  had  had  this  small  conservatory  built  for 
Grandma  Whipple's  special  benefit.  "It  keeps  her  fussing 
with  something,"  as  Grandma's  daughter  modestly  explained 
to  those  who  deplored  such  wicked  waste.  There  were  neat 
rows  of  thriving  geraniums,  fuchsias,  bleeding  hearts,  cycla 
men.  Grandma  Whipple  kept  it  in  wonderful  order ;  it  was 
quite  in  keeping  with  the  homely,  domestic  atmosphere 
which  the  Peabodys  had  always  maintained.  As  witness 
the  Sabbath  meal  at  which  they  were  seated  to-day. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  beamed  old  Garry  Peabody, 
somewhat  broadened  from  the  popular  Burgeonville  drug 
gist  who  had  come  to  New  York  to  preach  the  gospel  of 
chain  drug  stores  these  twenty  years  ago.  His  famous  fuzz 
of  red  hair  had  grown  sparse  with  prosperity  and  rolls  of 
fat  had  gathered  about  the  April  innocence  of  his  round 
blue  eyes.  He  unfolded  his  napkin  and  beamed  over  his 
darlings.  Mid-board,  to  his  right,  crouched  Grandmother 
Whipple,  his  adored  mother-in-law,  who  had  grown  de 
crepit  since  he  had  taken  her  off  the  farm  near  Penn  Yann ; 
a  grim  and  silent  Roman  crone  who  chewed  carefully  on  a 
double  set  of  false  teeth,  spoke  seldom  and  that  pithily. 
Rosa  occupied  the  chair  opposite  to  that  of  her  grandmother. 
Across  from  Garry  sat  his  wife,  she  who  had  been  Nan 
Whipple  of  Penn  Yann,  placid,  contented — and  what  Garry- 
most  loved  in  her — never  without  her  common  sense. 

"Well,  Chuck,"  said  old  Garry,  winking  over  his  soup 


MOTHER'S  MILK  329 

toward  his  daughter,  "I  suppose  you  brought  the  text  back 
from  church?" 

"Mr.  Beel  preached  with  a  cold  in  his  head  and  Boly  in 
sisted  on  writing  notes,"  announced  Miss  Peabody,  attack 
ing  the  rich  gumbo. 

"A  chapter   from  Revelations,"  grinned  her  father. 

"You  always  did  talk  like  a  heathen,"  croaked  Grand 
mother  Whipple,  fixing  her  filmy  brown  eyes  on  her  son- 
in-law  with  a  sort  of  fierce  fondness. 

"I  catch  it  from  Rosie,"  explained  the  head  of  the  house, 
well  pleased. 

"You'll  catch  it  from  Grandma  if  you  don't  watch  out," 
warned  his  pride  and  joy. 

"Lola,"  commanded  Mrs.  Peabody  of  the  coloured  maid, 
"see  that  Mr.  Peabody  has  some  sherry  with  his  soup." 

"Never  mind,"  consoled  Rosa's  father,  still  inclined  to 
banter.  "You'll  have  Cousin  Fluff  to  fight  with  to-morrow 
afternoon." 

"By  the  way,  Garry,"  upspoke  his  wife,  "you  never  gave 
me  back  that  letter  from  Sophie." 

"I  brought  it  from  the  office  last  night  and  forgot  to 
hand  it  over,"  apologised  Mr.  Peabody,  and  went  fumbling 
in  his  pocket  until  he  had  brought  out  the  cheap  pink 
envelope,  engraved  with  the  Annister  crest,  which  had  come 
nearly  a  month  ago  and  had  introduced  the  Fluff  idea  into 
West  End  Avenue. 

"If  you  once  get  Sophie's  system,"  he  went  on  as  he 
adjusted  his  eyeglasses  and  opened  the  sheet,  "the  thing 
is  comparatively  easy." 

"Can't  I  see  it,  Mother?"  asked  Rosa. 

"I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't,"  acknowledged  Mrs. 
Peabody;  and  this  was  a  signal  for  old  Garry  to  hand  the 
pink  stationery  to  his  daughter,  who  puzzled  awhile  over  the 
crabbed  scrawl. 

"Dearest  Nan: 

"I  was  both  pleased  and  surprised  to  receive  your  letter  in 
viting  my  little  girl  to  visit  yours,  because  it  came  as  a  happy 


330  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

shock  to  know  that  after  these  years  of  separation  you  still 
have  some  interest  in  us. 

"Of  course  she  will  come  and  most  gladly,  for  the  Great  City 
lures  her  as  it  does  all  girls,  and  for  my  own  part  I  am  glad 
to  have  her  go,  as  there  is  a  most  undesirable  young  man,  who 
is  so  persistent  in  his  attentions,  that,  despite  the  great  number 
of  admirers  she  has  (and  has  had  ever  since  her  hair  was  up!) 
I  am  a  little  afraid  she  might  take  him,  and  as  he  has  nothing, 
and  you  are  a  mother  yourself,  I  know  you  will  understand  my 
being  glad  to  have  her  diverted. 

"With  my  love  to  your  dear  girl,  and  thanking  you  for  your 
thought  of  your  little  country  niece,  and  my  regards  to  Garry, 

"Affectionately, 

"SOPHIA  ANNISTER." 

Being  herself  mainly  responsible  for  the  approaching 
Fluff,  Rosa  chose  to  make  no  comment. 

"Doing  anything  to  entertain  her?"  asked  the  father  of  the 
family. 

"Rosie's  been  arranging  the  parties,"  replied  Mrs.  Pea- 
body.  "And  I  do  hope  she'll  have  a  good  time." 

"Good  time?"  he  snorted.  "Turn  a  country  girl  loose 
in  New  York  with  nothing  to  do  but  see  the  wheels  go 
round — she'll  amuse  herself.  Do  you  remember  the  time, 
Nan,  when  I  first  took  you  to  see  the  Eden  Musee  ?" 

She  gave  him  an  affectionate  look  for  this,  but  resumed 
her  worry  almost  at  once. 

"Things  have  gotten  pretty  complicated  since  then.  I 
don't  know  what  notions  Sophia  Annister  may  have  about 
what's  proper  for  her  daughter " 

"As  I  remember  it  Sophia  wasn't  such  a  dead  one  in  her 
day,"  remarked  Garry  and  was  sorry  he  said  it.  Mrs. 
Peabody  spooned  soup  discreetly  before  resuming. 

"The  Annisters  aren't  so  well  off  as  they  used  to  be  and 
Sophia  has  notions.  I  know  that  by  the  snippy  way  she 
answered  my  letter,  asking  Fluff  down.  I  don't  see  how 
she  can  possibly  afford  clothes  to  dress  Fluff.  And  she'd 
eat  her  heart  out  if  she  thought  her  girl  wasn't  so  well 
gotten  up  as  the  next  one." 

"I  mind  the  time,"  croaked  Grandmother  Whipple  from 


MOTHER'S  MILK  331 

^ "^" ^™ " ^^"^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^T^^^^^^; 

her  place,  "when  Sophie  Whipple  that  was  came  down  to 
Penn  Yann.  Nothing  us  folks  had  was  good  enough  for 
her  folks.  Proud  as  a  peacock.  Dressed  like  a  duchess 
she  went  out  one  day  to  see  Pa  milk  cows.  Land,  such 
mighty  airs  !  You'd  a-thought  she  never  saw  a  cow  before." 

"There's  a  new  shuffle  about  once  in  a  generation,"  her 
son-in-law  told  her. 

'"Hoity-toity!"  creaked  Grandmother  Whipple. 

After  the  dinner  had  come  to  its  symphonic  conclusion 
upon  assorted  fruits  and  nuts  the  Peabodys  arose  and  took 
their  separate  ways ;  it  was  their  Sunday  custom  to  eat  well 
and  sleep  afterwards.  Rosa  was  the  one  exception  to  the 
rule,  as  the  mode  of  the  day  had  taught  her  moderation. 
She  was  rummaging  along  a  row  of  novels  in  the  library 
when  her  father  came  in  and  perched  on  the  arm  of  a  padded 
chair. 

"Suffering  from  insomnia,  Dad  ?"  she  asked,  looking  up. 

"What  say  you  and  I  pick  out  a  lover's  lane  and  take 
a  walk?"  was  his  astonishing  proposal. 

"What's  come  over  you?"  Rosa  slipped  her  book  back 
in  its  row. 

"Old  age,"  he  admitted.  "Doctor  says  I've  got  to  choose 
between  exercise  after  meals  or  a  lot  of  one-two-three  tor 
ture  in  a  gymnasium." 

Reflectively  he  caressed  his  bulging  waistcoat. 

"Oh,  if  it's  as  bad  as  that  I'll  take  you  to  Grant's  tomb 
and  back,"  she  responded,  and  flew  for  her  fur-trimmed 
coat  and  hat. 

As  they  walked  toward  Riverside  Drive  her  curiosity  pro 
gressed  with  every  step.  Never  before  had  she  known  her 
father  to  take  any  exercise  that  was  not  forced  upon 
him.  And  it  was  evident  to-day  that  he  wasn't  walking  be 
cause  he  liked  it.  He  blinked  in  the  wintry  sun  and  yawned 
his  generalities.  It  was  not  until  they  had  joined  that  end 
less  procession  which,  morning  and  afternoon  of  fine  Sun 
days,  passes  unbroken,  marching  and  counter-marching 
along  the  Drive  between  Seventy-second  Street  and  the 


332  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

architectural  pudding  dish  which  shelters  the  bones  of 
Shiloh's  conquerer,  that  he  ckared  his  throat  and  began 
to  talk. 

"Was  it  your  mother's  idea  or  yours,  bringing  Fluff  down 
for  a  visit?" 

"I've  had  her  on  my  mind  for  about  a  year,"  explained 
Rosa,  wondering  at  his  air  of  mystery. 

"How  did  the  notion  ever  get  into  your  head  ?" 

"Last  winter  when  I  was  coming  down  from  Canada 
the  train  got  blocked  at  a  funny-looking  station.  I  didn't 
know  it  was  Burgeonville  at  first.  Then  I  saw  the  sign  and 
it  dawned  upon  me  that  it  was  the  place  where  I  was  born ; 
I  got  to  thinking  of  the  funeral,  the  time  we  saw  Fluff  and 
her  mother  eleven  years  ago — do  you  remember  the  big, 
tumble-down  house  with  the  weeds  in  the  yard  and  broken 
urns  on  the  gate-posts?" 

"Only  too  well,"  replied  old  Garry,  quite  without  humour. 

"Well,  looking  from  the  station  that  day  it  struck  me 
Burgeonville,  all  bleak  and  snow-bound,  was  the  saddest 
place  I  had  ever  seen.  And  as  soon  as  I  got  back  to  New 
York  I  asked  Mother  about  Fluff.  It  seemed  she  wasn't 
married  and  nothing  much  had  happened  to  her.  I  wanted 
to  ask  her  right  down  for  a  visit,  but  we  couldn't  have  her 
last  winter  on  account  of  Grandma's  being  so  ill.  I  teased 
Mother  into  it  just  after  Christmas." 

"Of  course  you  always  take  a  chance,"  commented  Pea- 
body  in  that  same  unnatural  voice. 

"Why — aren't  they  nice?" 

"Sophie  Whipple  was  very  lovely  when  she  was  young," 
said  Rosa's  father,  and  he  was  gazing  straight  ahead  of  him. 

"Fluff  must  be  very  pretty  by  now." 

"She  would  be.  Hm.  Her  father  was  regarded  as  an 
unusually  handsome  man." 

The  echo  of  a  buried  jealousy  rattled  in  the  voice  of  this 
undersized  millionaire  with  the  commonplace  figure. 

"And,  Rosie,"  he  went  on  impulsively,  "all  I'm  afraid  of 
is  that  you're  biting  off  more  than  you  can  chew." 


MOTHER'S  MILK  333 

"In  what  way  ?" 

"I'm  a  country  boy,"  said  Peabody.  "And  your  mother's 
a  country  girl.  You  can't  realise  the  feeling,  never  having 
been  put  in  that  position ;  but  it's  a  horrible  torture  for  folks 
who  don't  know  the  ropes  to  be  dropped  cold-handed,  right 
into  the  midst  of  a  crowd  who  do.  It  makes  'em  unhappy, 
and  proud  and  cross-grained — and  mighty  contrary!  I'll 
never  forget  the  time  I  found  myself  in  that  fix.  A  cousin 
of  your  Aunt  Sophie's  was  being  married — it  was  called  a 
Rainbow  Wedding — very  swell  in  those  days.  Everybody 
there  dressed  to  kill.  A  lot  of  dudes  and  belles  prancing 
round,  giving  each  other  the  masonic  sign,  showing  that  I 
was  a  Rube  and  didn't  belong  to  their  lodge.  I  guess  I'd  have 
frozen  to  the  wall  if  your  mother  hadn't  come  round  and 
thawed  me  out." 

"Poor  Dad !    It  must  have  been  awful." 

"Not  so  bad — that  was  the  night  I  proposed  to  Nan." 

"If  I'd  been  there  I'd  have  fallen  in  love  with  you  my 
self,"  she  enthusiastically  assured  him,  clinging  to  the 
broad  sleeve  of  his  overcoat. 

"Hush  your  blarney !"  He  pretended  to  be  fearfully  an 
noyed.  "What  would  Boly  Pawley  be  doing  all  that  time  ?" 

"You  know,  Dad,  I'm  awfully  fond  of  Boly." 

"When  you  begin  that  way  I  know  you're  going  to  knock. 
What's  the  matter  with  him?" 

"I  think  he  amuses  me  too  much." 

"That  can  be  done,"  agreed  her  father,  coming  back  to 
a  broad  grin. 

"I'd  be  lonesome  if  he  didn't  show  up  once  in  a  while. 
But  he  doesn't  seem  to  mean  much  to  me." 

"That's  the  woman  of  it."    His  smile  faded. 

"You're  talking  like  an  old  cynic  to-day,"  she  scolded. 
"Anybody  would  think  you  were  unhappily  married  or 
something." 

"That  would  be  a  pretty  erroneous  impression,  wouldn't 
it?"  he  yielded. 


334  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"I  hate  those  half-baked  remarks  about  women.  Leave 
that  sort  of  wise  stuff  to  old  young  men  like  Boly." 

"Say  on — I'm  listening." 

"If  I  told  you  my  theory  about  Boly  Pawley  you'd  be 
shocked  to  death." 

She  stopped  in  her  walk  and  faced  her  father  with  an 
air  which  hinted  that  she  had  found  Boly  to  have  two 
stomachs  or  a  secret  passion  for  astrology. 

"You  can't  shatter  any  of  my  illusions,"  he  smiled. 

"Well,  then.  Love  is  Nature's  process  of  selection  for 
the  benefit  of  the  race.  I  know  this  sounds  a  lot  like  the 
book  I  got  it  out  of,  but  you  can't  deny  it.  I've  watched 
Boly  Pawley  for  a  long  time — and  I've  heard  a  lot  about 
him,  too.  He's  a  bright  talker  in  a  small  way  and  a  good 
dancer  and  he  simply  adores  clothes.  But  his  talk  merely 
covers  his  cockney  New  York  ignorance,  just  as  his  good 
dancing  and  well-cut  trousers  try  to  make  up  for  his  skinny 
little  calves.  He  hates  the  sight  of 'work;  the  only  mental 
effort  he  ever  makes  is  spent  on  wheedling  money  out  of 
his  father ;  his  constitution  and  his  conscience  are  both  badly 
undermined." 

"That's  quite  a  list,  I  will  admit,"  her  sire  conceded. 

"As  a  business  proposition — honestly,  Dad — would  you 
take  a  man  like  that  into  partnership?" 

"He  represents  quite  a  bit  of  capital,"  demurred  the  suc 
cessful  retail  druggist. 

"He  won't  represent  it  long,  once  he  gets  his  hands  free," 
she  pointed  out. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  call  Boly  a  very  safe  investment." 

"Would  you  take  into  your  family  a  very  dubious  busi 
ness  proposition  with  a  broken  constitution  and  bad  habits  ?" 

"See  here,  Rosie!"  He  threw  up  his  hands.  "I  never 
asked  Boly  to  marry  you." 

But  she  would  not  be  averted  from  her  relentless  cross- 
examination. 

"Do  you  think  a  man  like  J.  Bolingbroke  Pawley  is  a  fit 
candidate  to  be  the  father  of  my " 


MOTHER'S  MILK  335 

^ ^ 

"Land  of  Canaan!"  swore  old  Garry  Peabody.  "Your 
mother  and  I  didn't  talk  like  that  the  night  we  met  at  tht 
rainbow  wedding." 

"Nature  probably  did  the  talking  for  you,"  she  told  him. 

"We'd  better  change  the  subject,"  he  broke  in,  attempting 
to  be  firm.  "But  while  we're  at  it,  Chuck,  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  you're  just  about  on  the  right  track.  Not  that  I  be 
lieve  in  this  eugenics  rot — you  can't  improve  the  race  by 
incubating  a  lot  of  little  Eugenes,  born  perfect  and  with 
no  chance  of  getting  any  better.  But  this  Boly  Pawley  is 
small  fry,  I  agree." 

"I  really  want  to  get  married,  Daddy,"  she  wailed.  "I'm 
getting  along — past  twenty-three — and  I  don't  seem  to  have 
any  patience  with  the  little  dancing  fellows  that  show  up, 
whole  fraternities  at  a  time." 

"Save  'em  for  your  cousin  Fluff,"  suggested  old  Garry 
with  his  characteristic  frugality. 

"I've  already  asked  Boly  to  be  good  to  her  and  he  be 
haved  just  as  he  always  does  when  you  ask  him  to  be 
decent." 

They  paused  a  moment  and  looked  over  the  coping.  The 
Sunday  procession,  each  item  furred  or  plumed  or  top- 
hatted,  presented  to  the  superficial  eye  the  effect  of  an  end 
less  plutocracy.  Peabody  and  his  daughter  leaned  their 
elbows  on  the  stone  wall  and  gazed  toward  the  Hudson, 
a  wintry  stream  upon  which  polar  ice-packs  floated  down 
from  Poughkeepsie  way  while  fussy  tugs  churned  around 
the  racy  hulls  of  war-grey  destroyers. 

"I  guess  Florence  will  be  quite  a  job,"  said  her  father 
at  last,  casting  a  timid  glance. 

"Perhaps  not ;  anyway  I'm  glad  she's  coming." 

"I  haven't  said  much  to  your  mother  about  it.  You  girls 
are  about  the  same  age,  and  it'll  be  easier  for  you  to  under 
stand.  You've  got  to  expect  her  to  be  sort  of  shy.  It'll  be 
up  to  you  not  to  allow  her  to  be  shoved  in  a  corner.  If  her 
clothes  are  a  little  bit  shabby  and  plain  you  must  remember 
that  it's  harder  for  the  Annisters  to  get  things  than  it  is 


336  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

for  us.  Your  Aunt  Sophie's  probably  worked  her  fingers 
to  the  bone,  making  over  old  things.  She's  proud  as 
punch " 

"Dad,"  Rosaline  assurred  him,  her  face  brightening,  "I've 
thought  out  the  clothes  situation!" 

"Then  I've  been  wasting  my  lecture!"  he  grinned  with 
something  of  an  effort. 

"I'm  going  to  lend  her  some  of  mine." 

"You're  the  real  thing,  Chuck,"  he  told  her  huskily. 

And  they  talked  in  monosyllables  on  their  walk  back  to 
the  pressed-brick  house  in  West  End  Avenue.  At  the  steps 
Garry  waved  her  farewell,  muttering  something  about  his 
club  and  being  home  after  a  while.  A  melancholy  seemed 
to  have  settled  upon  his  unreflecting  spirit;  he  was  putting 
himself  back  into  the  humiliation  and  the  triumph  of  his 
thirty-fifth  year. 

You  would  never  have  thought  of  this  smooth  and  com 
fortable  little  person,  waddling  downtown  through  Manhat 
tan's  snow-piles,  as  the  ancient  battle-ground  of  two  loves. 
But  that  roaring  romance  had  begun  and  closed  in  a  curious 
victory  before  the  go's  were  well  on  their  way.  Garry's 
father  had  run  a  hack  between  the  Burgeonville  station  and 
the  summer  boarding  houses  of  the  place  and  Garry,  having 
studied  pharmacy  in  Buffalo,  had  come  back  to  his  home 
town,  clerked  in  Robb's  drug  store  and  finally  had  taken  the 
establishment  for  his  own.  Almost  from  the  first  day  of 
proprietorship  Garry  had  begun  introducing  vaudeville  into 
the  ancient  and  honourable  profession  of  pill-rolling.  His 
Burgeonville  corner  was  the  first  Jumbo  Drug  Store,  and 
his  peace-destroying  window  displays  were  the  wonder  and 
amusement  of  the  country  side. 

"There's  nothing  sacred  about  the  price  of  quinine,"  was 
one  of  his  favourite  sayings  in  those  days.  "Why  can't  I  cut 
rates  in  drugs  the  same  as  they  cut  'em  in  sugar  or  boys' 
pants  ?" 

Nobody  could  tell  Garry  exactly  why.    Yet  Burgeonville 


MOTHER'S  MILK  337 

r^ "* """"*"^"^™""MMM^*^"**"M''*MM^M**M^*'^^^ 

had  its  gasp  when  the  Jumbo  offered  a  beautiful  souvenir 
bottle  of  cologne  with  every  prescription  of  fifty  cents  or 
over  filled  on  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays.  Peabody's 
show  window  legitimatised  the  arts  of  the  patent-medicine 
faker  when  a  comic  minstrel  performer,  temporarily 
stranded  on  the  Lake,  blacked  up  and  demonstrated  a  lot  of 
razors  which  Garry  had  bought  for  a  song  from  a  bank 
rupt  in  Syracuse.  The  Jumbo  seemed  to  be  handling 
almost  anything  but  drugs ;  yet  nobody  could  deny  that  the 
lettered  boast  "prescriptions  carefully  compounded"  was 
well  fulfilled  at  Garry's  corner. 

It  was  notable  that  Garry  was  headed  toward  doom.  The 
seven  wise  men  of  the  town  whispered,  "He's  borrowing 
money  like  water."  Yet  when  things  collapsed  they  fell 
from  the  outside  in;  for  before  its  second  Christmas  the 
Jumbo  had  amalgamated  unto  itself  its  two  rivals  and  the 
reckless  dreamer,  who  was  beginning  to  introduce  real 
cigars  for  the  traditional  drug-store  article,  was  asking 
cheerfully,  "What's  the  matter  with  running  Jumbo  through 
Syracuse  and  Buffalo  and  maybe  down  to  York?" 

The  growth  of  factories  in  the  Burgeonville  region 
had  caused  the  town  to  flourish  and  there  was  reasonable 
elbow  room  for  Garry's  expanding  ambitions.  He  might 
have  married  any  of  a  dozen  pretty,  sensible  young  ladies ; 
but  Garry's  love  for  brilliant  effects  took  him  far  astray  in 
one  particular. 

Sophia  Whipple  returned  from  finishing  school  with  a 
fashionable  figure  and  a  come-hither  in  her  eye.  The  Bur 
geonville  Whipples  held  themselves  very  high  in  those  days. 
Not  at  all  like  their  poor,  farm-grubbing  cousins,  the  Penn 
Yann  Whipples — mercy  no!  There  was  a  dear,  dead 
Whipple  ancestor,  buried  somewhere  in  Rhode  Island,  who 
had  borne  a  crown  title  and  been  an  eminent  somebody.  Of 
course  the  Penn  Yann  Whipples  might  have  held  a  claim 
to  that  stock  too,  but  the  Penn  Yann  Whipples  weren't 
claiming  very  much. 

Across  the  allurements  of  his  show  window  Garry  Pea- 


338  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

body  beheld  Sophia  walking  down  the  street,  wearing  the 
first  tailor-made  suit  the  town  had  ever  seen  in — or  on — the 
flesh.  It  was  made  of  broadcloth,  drawn  in  very  tight  at 
the  waist  with  little  tails  sticking  out  back  and  great  leg  o' 
mutton  sleeves  puckered  at  the  shoulders.  This  she  wore 
arrogantly,  a  little  gravy-boat  of  a  hat  perched  upon  her 
reddish  curls.  Actually  she  looked  not  half  so  absurd  as 
the  ultra-fashionable  young  lady  of  to-day. 

Garry  had  just  introduced  his  new  crystal  soda  fountain 
from  which  he  could  draw  such  exotic  beverages  as  Sea 
Breeze  Cream  and  Tutti  Frutti  Cobbler;  and  he  gave  the 
pampered  Sophie  Whipple  his  very  personal  attention  when 
she  wandered  in  on  a  dull  afternoon  and  chose  to  use  her 
eyes  for  his  undoing.  They  were  handsome,  shallow  brown 
eyes  which  carried  with  them  a  more  dangerous  languour 
than  anything  Garry  could  furnish  out  of  bottles.  They 
maddened  him  to  ambitious  dreams;  he  even  went  so  far 
as  to  ask  if  he  could  call,  and  her  consent  turned  him  into 
a  silly  slave.  Garry  Peabody  had  never  cared  much  about 
clothes  until  this  perplexing  point  in  his  career ;  but  after  his 
first  call  at  the  Whipple  house  the  fires  of  his  new  cravat 
vied  with  his  blushes. 

Garry  possessed  a  saving  caution  which  kept  his  Jumbo 
from  pining  utterly  away  from  neglect.  It  was  certain  that 
his  business  didn't  prosper  under  the  influence  of  Venus. 
When  Garry  wasn't  with  Sophie  he  was  taking  les 
sons  on  the  guitar  from  a  local  teacher,  hoping  to  sing 
college  glees  for  her  pleasure.  His  singing  voice  was  like 
that  of  a  mournful  calf,  indeed  the  local  Circe  was  making 
a  very  poor  animal  out  of  the  hero.  The  Burgeonville  Re 
publican,  in  its  society  column,  was  now  referring  to  her  as 
"our  reigning  belle."  College  boys  from  up  the  Lake,  a 
trifle  more  wary  than  poor  Peabody,  flitted  around,  dis 
played  their  superior  accomplishments  and  drove  the  smitten 
druggist  to  distraction.  And  yet  he  was  her  handy  man. 
His  perpetual  talk  about  Chain  Drug  Stores  and  Cut  Rate 
Pharmacies  bored  Sophie  to  the  point  of  insult.  It  was  a 


MOTHER'S  MILK  339 

f***1^ ^         " ^ ™"^ m~^m^^~^^~^^~^mi~imm*~i~~^^^^^~* 

great  come-down  for  the  Whipples  to  endure  this  melan 
choly  plebeian ;  and  yet  his  red-headed  persistency  got  a 
solitaire  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  her  left  hand  one  winter 
afternoon.  The  arrangement  brought  a  sort  of  ease  to 
Garry  Peabody,  who  went  back  to  his  drug  store  and  was 
sane  for  a  space  of  time. 

Then  Eric  Annister  graduated  from  Yale.  He  came  back 
in  June  covered  with  fraternity  pins,  displaying  wonderful 
patterns  on  his  puffy  Ascot  ties,  wearing  trousers  wider 
and  stiffer  than  ever  before  seen  in  those  parts,  shoes  with 
exaggeratedly  pointed  toes,  a  flat  straw  hat  of  the  type  then 
known  as  Buzz  Saw;  and  he  was  leading  a  dangerous  bull 
dog  named  "Hickory."  A  conquering  spirit,  a  credit  to  the 
small  nobility  of  the  county!  Photographs  of  the  splendid 
Annister,  showing  the  bare  calves  and  striped  blazer  of  a 
Varsity  oarsman,  were  sticking  in  the  mirrors  of  many 
dainty  bureaus  around  the  Lake.  He  could  dance  any 
dance,  round  or  square,  that  "Lorena"  or  "The  Washington 
Post"  ever  harmonised  to  an  enchanted  ball-room.  From 
the  Annister  home  with  its  elegant  mansard  roof,  it  be 
came  Burgeonville's  daily  upliftment  to  see  Eric's  weir- 
matched  tandem  team  drawing  his  high-wheeled  dog-cart 
between  the  wooden  urns  of  the  Annister  gate-posts.  .  .  . 

Heigh-ho !  thought  old  Garry  Peabody  on  this  Sunday 
afternoon  as  he  passed  moodily  along  West  End  Avenue. 
It  wasn't  so  many  years  ago  that  he  had  gone  to  Eric's 
funeral  and  walked  down  Main  Street,  Burgeonville,  as  far 
as  the  dilapidated  gate-post  marked  "27."  The  bronze  let 
ters  hung  loosely  on  their  nails.  One  of  the  wooden  urns 
had  been  split  some  time  since ;  the  broken  piece  had  prob 
ably  gone  for  Annister  firewood.  The  iron  gate  had  been 
tied  with  a  piece  of  rope.  On  that  day  he  had  seen  the  ugly 
shape  of  the  old  Annister  mansard,  leprous  for  lack  of 
paint,  the  lawn  shaggy  with  burdock  and  chickweed.  Down 
the  lovely  slope,  rolling  to  the  Feeder  which  overflowed  into 
the  Lake,  crimson  globes  were  weighing  down  stalwart 


340  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

branches  of  an  apple  orchard  which  no  longer  belonged  to 
the  Annisters.  And  through  the  corner  of  the  lawn  there 
was  worn  a  little  footpath,  convenient  to  small  boys  hurrying 
•down  to  the  Feeder  with  bent  pins  upon  their  lines,  intent 
to  angle  for  baby  sunfish  as  innocent  and  artless  as  them 
selves.  .  .  . 

The  behaviour  of  Garry  Peabody  upon  the  first  onslaught 
of  Eric  Annister  had  been  a  lesson  in  unpreparedness.  The 
able  local  druggist  knew  nothing  about  the  game  which 
was  instinctive  to  the  awe-inspiring  collegian.  Garry  should 
have  made  the  best  of  it,  but  it  is  hard  for  a  fly,  stuck  in 
fresh  asphalt,  to  make  the  best  of  an  approaching  steam 
roller. 

Had  the  high-rolling  young  Annister  come  home  for  the 
direct  purpose  of  winning  Sophie  Whipple  he  could  not 
have  gone  at  it  better.  Whom  the  gods  destroy  they  first 
make  mad ;  and  Eric  drove  her  crazy  forthwith.  He  got  out 
his  spanking  tandem  and  his  dog-cart  with  the  Yale-blue 
wheels ;  and  in  this  equipage  he  stopped  at  every  prosperous 
gate-post  around  the  Lake — except  the  Whipples'.  He 
danced  with  Sophia  just  enough  to  show  her  that  they 
weren't  two-stepping  like  that  at  the  Prom  that  year,  then 
he  forgot  about  her  for  several  fortnights  while  he  busied 
himself  elsewhere.  During  this  period  Garry,  nursing  the 
foolish  masculine  fancy  that  she  would  get  over  it,  was  as 
dirt  under  her  feet.  But  the  sight  of  Annister,  disporting 
his  worldly  charms  right  under  her  nose,  was  to  Sophie 
Whipple  like  snatching  fresh  meat  away  from  a  hungry  cat. 
Garry,  being  the  nearest  at  hand,  got  the  scratches. 

It  was  on  the  day  when  the  Jumbo  proprietor  was  ar 
ranging  a  window  display  of  Peabody's  Eczema  Cream  that 
he  looked  across  the  street  just  in  time  to  realise  his  doom. 
A  spirited  tandem  team  went  prancing  by,  and  above  the 
violet  blue  of  the  high  wheels  sat  Sophie  Whipple,  giving 
the  benefit  of  her  killing  eyes  to  the  sportively  clad  gentle- 


MOTHER'S  MILK  341 

man  at  her  side  who,  due  to  constant  practice,  could  drive 
tandem  with  one  hand. 

A  spinster  lady  of  the  Whipple  connection  was  married 
to  a  clergyman  at  about  that  time.  All  the  Whipple  stock 
were  invited  to  the  wedding,  and  that  had  to  include  at  least 
one  of  those  awful  Penn  Yann  Whipples.  Little  Nan  was 
wished  upon  the  Burgeonville  branch  for  the  week  of 
festivities;  and  Sophie,  branding  it  as  an  outrageous  im 
pertinence  on  the  part  of  Nan's  bucolic  mother,  saw  visions 
of  her  country  cousin  arriving  in  a  sun-bonnet.  It  wasn't 
so  bad  as  that,  Garry  remarked  from  his  show  window  as 
he  saw  her  driving  in  from  the  station  and  saw  the  bloom 
ing  young  face  above  a  somewhat  obsolete  garment.  Sophie 
was  to  be  a  bridesmaid  that  night  and  had  commanded 
Garry  to  escort  her,  exerting  her  royal  prerogative.  He 
hadn't  the  heart  to  ask  her  why  Eric  didn't  volunteer. 

The  sacred  union  of  the  elderly  Miss  Whipple  and  the 
still  more  withered  divine  was  made  the  excuse  for  an 
evening  party  of  a  type  much  in  vogue  in  the  early  go's.  It 
was  called  a  "rainbow  wedding."  To  these  affairs  the 
bridesmaids  came  two  by  two,  each  pair  imitating  in  china 
crepe  one  colour  of  the  heaven's  spectral  arch — with  a  dif 
ference.  And  at  the  wedding  of  Second  Cousin  Betty  Miss 
Sophie  Whipple  was  a  baby  blue  bridesmaid  with  an  orange 
ribbon.  After  the  knot  was  tied  she  caught  the  bride's 
bouquet  under  the  jealous  observation  of  Garry  Peabody, 
who  had  been  shoved  into  a  corner  and  had  the  bitter  sat 
isfaction  of  seeing  Eric  Annister,  wearing  a  Gordon  sash 
with  his  evening  clothes,  peering  into  her  handsome  eyes  and 
declaring  that  he  wasn't  superstitious. 

Poor  Garry  wasn't  dancing  that  night.  He  had  come 
there  filled  with  a  renewed  hope  and  desperately  resolved 
to  show  the  world  that  the  belle  of  Burgeonville  was  still 
engaged  to  him  and  that  he  had,  in  spite  of  everything, 
some  rights  on  earih.  Instead  of  which  the  baby-blue 
coquette  went  whirling  away  in  the  arms  of  the  dancing 
knight.  Sophie  had  lightly  promised  to  give  Garry  the  sec- 


342  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

ond  dance;  but  at  the  second  dance  and  the  third  she  was 
again  found  reclining  on  Annister's  well-tailored  shoulder. 
Once,  as  she  whirled  toward  him,  she  tried  to  give  Garry 
an  appeasing  smile,  but  he  turned  his  eyes  away.  He  had 
noticed  in  a  glance  that  she  no  longer  wore  the  solitaire 
which  he  had  purchased  from  the  best  dealer  in  Syracuse. 

The  entire  rainbow  had  turned  red  to  him,  and  he  had 
been  considering  some  romantic  foolishness  when  a  little 
girl  in  a  funny  brocaded  gown  came  and  sat  beside  him. 
He  was  through  with  Sophie  Whipple,  and  the  thought  gave 
him  a  wonderful  relief.  Also  the  girl  in  the  next  chair  had 
childish  eyes  of  an  honest  blue  and  cheeks  bright  as  the 
Penn  Yann  orchards.  She  seemed  a  little  confused  and 
confessed  that  she  didn't  know  how  to  dance.  So  they  sat 
together  and  watched  the  world  go  by.  Later  he  became 
gallant  and  brought  her  a  supper  of  chicken  salad  and  mild 
punch.  He  found  himself  glorying  in  her  simplicity  and 
honesty  and  natural  flavour;  it  was  as  though  he  had  sick 
ened  with  the  perfumes  of  his  drug  store  and  had  fled  to  the 
open  air  and  the  sweet  orchards.  He  was  reckless,  of 
course,  with  the  over  zeal  of  a  new  convert.  And  when  he 
had  taken  her  home  to  the  Whipple  gate  after  the  dance  and 
she  had  released  the  modest  touch  of  her  little  hand  from 
his  sleeve  he  paused  a  minute  before  blurting, 

"I  know  this  is  sudden,  Miss  Whipple.  But  I'm  going  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me." 

Sophie  Whipple  in  the  ensuing  weeks  paid  very  little  at 
tention  to  her  ex-adorer's  frequent  visits  to  Penn  Yann. 
The  gossip  got  round  town  but  she  was  entirely  absorbed 
in  retaining  Eric's  exclusive  attention.  It  was  somewhat 
at  variance  with  her  nature  that  she  didn't  even  once  reach 
out  and  try  to  snatch  back  poor  Garry.  Possibly  she  would 
have  succeeded. 

Garry  and  Nan  were  married  sensibly  in  the  spring  of 
1893.  Sophie  managed  her  own  affair  so  skilfully  that  her 
wedding  with  Annister  came  in  the  Fall  of  the  same  year. 
No  doubt  that  Garry's  insurrection  left  a  wound  in  the 


MOTHER'S  MILK  343 

iridescent  thing  she  called  her  heart,  and  it  is  probable  that 
she  hurried  matters  a  bit  with  Annister.  The  Annister- 
Whipple  wedding  was  billed  as  a  Function  by  the  Burgeon- 
ville  Republican.  It  packed  a  church  and  brought  a  high- 
priced  organist  all  the  way  down  from  Buffalo.  The  young 
Annisters — Garry  heard  this  vaguely  at  his  hard-working 
prescription  counter — took  their  honeymoon  at  one  of  New 
York's  most  fashionable  hotels,  which  was  then  in  the  pre- 
dreadnought  period.  And  they  came  back  to  Burgeonville 
to  live  in  great  state  with  Annister's  opinionated  mother  who 
bossed  the  square  house  with  the  mansard  roof. 

The  young  Peabodys  took  a  small  house  less  than  two 
blocks  away  from  the  Jumbo  Drug  Store.  During  the  forth 
coming  years  both  Garry  and  Eric  borrowed  money,  Garry 
on  his  character  and  Eric  on  his  lack  of  it.  Garry,  in  fact, 
had  taken  to  business  junketings  about  the  State,  and  when 
folks  came  into  the  Burgeonville  Jumbo  and  reminded  its 
proprietor  that  bigger  and  newer  Jumbos  were  appearing  in 
Syracuse  and  Buffalo,  the  news  was  received  with  interest 
but  without  astonishment.  In  fact  there  was  an  epidemic  of 
Jumbos  creeping  yellow-fronted  and  violent  from  city  to 
city.  About  the  time  Rosa  was  born,  Garry  was  spending 
most  of  his  time  on  the  road,  only  giving  his  week  ends  to 
the  family  he  adored.  And  on  a  bright  Wednesday  morn 
ing,  scarcely  bidding  the  town  a  decent  farewell,  they  closed 
the  Burgeonville  house  and  moved  to  New  York.  Link 
by  link  a  shining  chain  of  Jumbo  Cut  Rate  Drug  Stores  was 
now  working  its  way  across  the  Island  of  Manhattan. 

.  .  .  Garry  Peabody's  reflections,  following  his  habit- 
driven  feet,  had  now  taken  him  past  Central  Park  along 
Fifty-seventh  Street.  Automatically  he  was  turning  into 
Fifth  Avenue  toward  the  Apothecaries'  Club,  of  which  he 
was  charter  member  and  life  president. 

"Poor  Sophie  was  cut  pretty  deep,"  h«  kept  thinking 
remorsefully,  as  though  it  were  some  fault  of  his  own. 

He  couldn't  forget  the  details  of  Eric  Annister's  funeral, 


344  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

i . . — , 

to  which  a  stubborn  loyalty  had  drawn  him  in  the  early 
years  of  the  Twentieth  Century.  Eric  had  given  the  town 
the  opportunity  for  a  splendid  funeral,  ostentatious  and 
insincere  as  everything  must  be  which  touched  upon  Eric 
Annister.  The  weedy  Annister  fortunes  and  the  shame 
which  Eric  had  brought  his  wife  seemed  to  make  no  differ 
ence.  Burgeonville's  finest  beau  with  all  his  showy  incom 
petence  lay  upon  his  bier.  The  Best  People  in  the  district 
came  to  the  ceremony,  a  fashionable  preacher  gave  his 
services  free  and  delivered  a  sermon  which  was  dramatic 
for  the  things  he  didn't  say.  He  didn't  say  that  the  late 
lamented  failed  in  life  principally  because  he  had  been 
puffed  beyond  his  small  capacity;  that  women  had  spoiled 
him,  undergraduate  popularity  had  made  an  ass  of  him; 
that  he  was  too  proud  to  work  and  too  stupid  to  think ;  that 
in  his  latter  poverty  he  permitted  his  wife  to  launder  the 
splendid  shirts  in  which  he  attitudinised  wherever  there  was 
a  chance  of  borrowing  a  dollar  bill.  A  wealthy  Annister 
connection  laid  lilies  of  the  valley  on  Eric's  casket  and 
escaped  further  responsibility  by  chugging  back  to  Buffalo 
in  one  of  the  first  American  automobiles. 

"Poor  Sophie  was  cut  pretty  deep,"  persisted  the  imp  at 
the  back  of  old  Garry's  head  as  he  paused  in  front  of  the 
Apothecaries'  Club  and  shook  the  new-fallen  snow  from 
his  collar.  He  had  called  to  see  her  directly  after  the 
funeral.  It  was  obvious  that  something  must  be  done  for 
her,  as  the  Annister  house  had  become  a  Bedlam  of  weather- 
beaten  junk. 

"I'm  no  pauper,"  she  had  ungraciously  responded,  her 
haggard  face  grown  sourly  middle-aged,  glaring  up  under 
her  widow's  weeds.  "And  I  want  you  to  understand  that 
nobody  by  the  name  of  Peabody  shall  do  any  favours  for 
us." 

And  quite  without  any  personal  vanity  Garry  Peabody 
had  yet  been  forced  to  realise  that  Sophie  Whipple  would 
always  hate  the  man  whom  she  had  jilted  for  a  ne'er-do-well. 


MOTHER'S  MILK  345 


ii 

"For  the  sake  of  mercy !" 

Mrs.  Peabody,  who  was  not  given  to  violent  expressions, 
said  it  twice  as  she  peeked  through  the  petunia  curtains  into 
West  End  Avenue.  Rosa  had  just  gotten  out,  bringing  a 
large  hat-box  after  her,  and  through  the  glass-paned,  padded 
door  followed  the  cause  of  Mrs.  Peabody's  lady-like  pro 
fanity.  The  sight  wasn't  one  you  could  have  missed.  The 
girl  from  Burgeonville  showed  a  generous  stretch  of  cham 
pagne-coloured  stocking  above  the  first  high  yellowish  boot 
she  thrust  out  of  the  motor's  door.  When  the  whole  of  her 
was  visible  it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  was  wearing  a  black 
and  white  coat  of  a  remarkable  checkerboard  pattern,  three 
feet  of  sealskin  at  her  collar  and  on  her  head  an  exaggerated 
fur  creation  which  towered  heavenward  like  the  shako  of 
a  Scottish  drum-major.  She  was  about  Rosa's  height,  but 
beside  the  hypermodishness  of  her  country  cousin,  Miss 
Peabody  looked  like  a  little  nun. 

"For  the  sake  of  mercy !"  again  whispered  Mrs.  Peabody ; 
and  it  was  fortunate  that  the  coloured  maid  remembered  her 
manners  and  went  to  assist  with  the  complication  of  bags 
and  boxes  which  had  laden  down  the  chauffeur. 

"My  dear !"  the  good  lady  had  gathered  strength  to  gush 
when  the  bright  visitor  came  in.  As  she  gathered  the 
checkerboards  and  lofty  furs  into  her  arms  she  was  sud 
denly  aware  that  the  little  face  she  was  about  to  kiss  had 
been  freshened  by  a  touch  of  rouge  and  that  the  handsome 
brown  eyes  were  pencilled  around  the  lashes.  There  was 
no  doubt  in  the  world  that  Fluff  was  pretty. 

"The  train  was  two  hours  late  and  Fluff  has  missed  her 
lunch,"  Rosa  was  explaining. 

"You  poor  child.    Aren't  you  starved?"  asked  her  aunt. 

"Not  so  very."  Her  rather  strained  smile  conveyed  a  first 
impression  of  hostility.  "I  met  a  nice  man  on  the  train.  He 
gave  me  a  box  of  candy." 


346  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"Rosie,  do  take  your  cousin  to  her  room.  I'll  have  some 
thing  on  the  table  as  soon  as  she  comes  down." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  you  to  go  to  so  much  trouble."  The 
pretty,  rather  indefinite  little  face  was  truly  concerned.  She 
was  the  very  picture  of  Sophie  in  her  young  twenties, 
thought  Aunt  Nan,  placidly  reviewing  the  prodigy.  But 
where  in  the  world  did  she  get  those  clothes? 

"I  wouldn't  think  of  your  missing  your  lunch,"  said  Mrs. 
Peabody  with  good-natured  authority. 

Rosa,  who  had  recovered  from  the  first  shock  of  surprise 
at  the  Grand  Central  Station,  guided  the  vision  in  black 
and  white  up  the  stairs  and  to  the  spare  bed-room.  As 
soon  as  her  cousin  had  removed  that  hat  the  rather  fuzzy 
honey-coloured  hair,  from  which  Fluff  had  taken  her  nick 
name,  was  revealed,  bobbed  and  barretted  in  a  heinous  fash 
ion  of  the  day.  Rosa  was  fairly  bursting  with  impulses 
toward  cousinly  advice  in  the  matter  of  hairdressing,  when 
Fluff  laid  aside  her  patchy  cloak  and  sprung  the  next  sur 
prise.  As  she  stood  revealed  before  the  long  mirror  the  gown 
which  clung  around  her  graceful  person  was  a  symposium 
of  all  the  modes  with  a  few  fanciful  additions.  There  were 
horizontal  stripes  around  the  tight  bodice  and  a  row  of  pro 
digious  pearl  buttons;  the  skirt,  what  there  was  of  it,  was 
Egyptian  in  its  simplicity. 

"Do  I  look  all  right?"  asked  the  girl  from  Burgeonville, 
flirting  with  herself  in  the  mirror  as  she  powdered  her  nose. 

"You  look  lovely,"  Rosa  lied,  lacking  courage  for  the 
truth. 

"Mrs.  Heman  Sutler,  up  the  Lake,  makes  all  my 
clothes,"  confided  Fluff.  "She  copies  the  patterns  out  of  the 
fashion  magazines  and  they  do  say  she  improves  them  a 
lot." 

She  cast  a  haughty  glance  over  the  slim,  long-skirted 
costume  of  her  cousin. 

"This  is  just  an  old  thing,"  said  Rosa  modestly. 

"Mrs.  Sutler  comes  down  to  York  twice  a  year  and 
studies  the  latest  styles.  She  copied  this  waist  from  Fleurot 


MOTHER'S  MILK  347 

and  the  skirt  from  Poirel.  Of  course  she  puts  in  a  lot  of 
original  touches.  I  read  in  Dame  Rumor  how  Mrs.  Pulsiver 
Smallweed  wore  something  like  this  at  the  Tuxedo  horse 
show.  Don't  you  adore  Dame  Rumor?" 

Rosa  was  reluctant  to  admit  that  her  mother  had  for 
bidden  the  house  to  Fluff's  favourite  publication. 

"Mr.  Jacobson,  the  gentleman  I  met  on  the  train,  said 
that  I  reminded  him  of  a  girl  he  knew  in  the  Winter  Garden. 
He  was  very  nice  till  he  got  fresh.  Charlie  White  told  me 
he  ought  to  come  down  and  take  care  of  me." 

"Who's  Charlie  White?" 

"Charlie  ?"  Fluff  gave  a  sidelong  glance  at  her  reflection. 
"Oh,  we're  engaged,  sort  of." 

"That  must  be  thrilling!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  never  been  ?" 

"Not  even  once,"  confessed  the  city  cousin. 

"My  goodness,  what  have  you  been  doing?"  Rosa 
couldn't  say,  so  Fluff  went  on,  "I  took  off  Charlie's  ring  on 
the  train.  No  use  putting  all  your  eggs  in  one  basket,  you 
know." 

"Haven't  you  any  intention  of  marrying  him?" 

"Oh,  maybe.  Charlie's  peculiar.  He's  always  gadding 
away  on  engineering  jobs.  Last  year  he  came  back  from 
Peru  dead  broke  and  now  he  wants  to  go  back  again  and 
start  a  railroad  or  something.  I  keep  telling  him  he  must 
stop  chasing  rainbows.  The  Whites  never  amounted  to  a 
row  of  pins,"  she  assured  the  image  in  the  mirror,  "but 
Charlie's  crazy  about  me." 

"I  think  your  lunch  is  ready,"  said  Miss  Peabody.  And 
the  two  descended  the  stairs  with  arms  entwined. 

The  two  Peabodys  sat  around  and  watched  Fluff  eat  her 
luncheon ;  and  their  air  was  as  consciously  impersonal  as  is 
usual  when  two  polite  persons  sit  as  witnesses  upon  an 
other's  gustatory  feats. 

"How's  your  mother?"  asked  Aunt  Nan. 


348  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"She's  very  well,  thank  you,"  was  Fluff's  startling  revela 
tion  as  she  speared  a  second  slice  of  cold  mutton. 

"I  was  disappointed  when  she  wrote  that  she  couldn't 
come  down  too,"  Mrs.  Peabody  politely  assured  her  guest. 

"She's  been  awfully  busy  this  winter.  You  see  Mrs.  Sut 
ler's  getting  to  be  the  fashionable  dressmaker  round  the 
Lake.  So  Mamma's  been  helping  her  out." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Peabody ;  then  turning  to 
her  daughter,  "Your  Aunt  Sophie  always  had  a  wonderful 
knack." 

"Mamma's  just  doing  it  to  help  Mrs.  Sutler  out  till 
spring,"  Fluff  was  quick  to  explain,  looking  up  defiantly 
as  though  expecting  a  sign  of  contempt  or  disapproval. 
"Mamma's  very  loyal  to  her  friends." 

Involuntarily  Rosa  glanced  down  at  the  white  fingers 
which  so  nervously  plied  knife  and  fork.  No  sign  of 
needle  scars  there.  And  here,  too,  was  a  rational  explana 
tion  of  Fluff's  remarkable  wardrobe. 

"What's  the  matter?  Did  I  say  anything  I  shouldn't?" 
asked  Fluff,  laying  down  her  fork. 

"My  dear!"  upspoke  Mrs.  Peabody,  as  embarrassed  as 
her  touchy  guest. 

"Well,  a  great  many  fashionable  ladies  have  gone  in  for 
dressmaking — Lady  Duff  Gordon's  shop " 

"Oh,  most  decidedly,"  cut  in  Aunt  Nan's  appeasing  note. 
"Fluff,  dear,  I  think  your  toast  is  getting  cold.  Let  me 
bring  you  in  a  fresh  plate." 

Mrs.  Peabody  smoothly  extracted  herself,  leaving  her 
daughter  to  face  the  discord.  Rosa  could  have  murdered 
her  impertinent  little  cousin.  Instead,  she  smiled,  and 
reached  out  desperately  for  something  to  say. 

"An  awfully  nice  chap  I  know — a  Mr.  Pawley — is  coming 
round  with  his  motor  pretty  soon.  I  thought,  if  you 
weren't  too  tired,  we  might  take  a  spin  and  have  tea  some 
where." 

"I  thought  you  never  got  engaged,"  twitted  Fluff  with  a 
wicked  smile. 


MOTHER'S  MILK  349 

"To  Boly?"     Here  she  gave  a  genuine  laugh. 

"What  do  you  call  him?" 

"Boly  Pawley.    That's  his  nickname." 

"Sounds  like  an  Indian." 

"I  think  you'll  like  him."  Devoutly  Rosa  hoped  she 
would. 

"Is  he  rich?" 

"Rather." 

"Oh !    And  my  trunk  hasn't  come." 

Rosa  was  going  to  say  that  Fluff  looked  perfectly  lovely 
as  she  was.  But  she  hadn't  the  heart. 

"Lola/'  asked  she  of  the  black  maid  who  had  entered  with 
fresh  toast,  "has  Miss  Annister's  trunk  come?" 

"Yes'm.    Fanny's  unpackin'  it  now." 

"Then  I'll  get  on  something  for  the  afternoon.  No  more 
toast,  thank  you,"  said  Fluff  decisively  and  fled. 

Mrs.  Peabody  came  in  a  moment  later  and  gazed  aghast. 

"Where's  she  gone  now  ?"  was  her  artless  question. 

"When  I  told  her  Boly  was  coming  with  his  car  she 
fairly  raced  away  to  put  on  another  dress." 

"I  hope  it's  a  change  for  the  better,"  sighed  Mrs.  Pea- 
body.  "Did  you  ever  see  such  a  sight  ?" 

"Anyhow,  you  needn't  be  afraid  any  more  that  the  bold 
clothes  and  careless  manners  of  the  great  city  will  shock 
our  little  country  cousin." 

"You  shouldn't  talk  that  way  about  her,  Rosie!"  chided 
her  mother. 

The  young  girl  arose  and  stood  stiffly. 

"Mother,  I  think  she  hates  the  very  sight  of  us,"  she 
said  with  unaccustomed  asperity.  "I  think  she  resents  every 
cent  we  have,  every  stitch  we  wear,  every  mouthful  we  eat." 

"That's  not  worthy  of  you,  dear,"  replied  Mrs.  Peabody 
in  a  voice  stranger  than  her  daughter's.  "And  even  if  she 
does — you've  got  to  remember  that  life  has  dealt  very 
harshly  with  the  Annisters." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mother.  I  promised  Dad  I'd  be  good  to 
her " 


350  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

"You  did?"  asked  Mrs.  Peabody,  her  blue  eyes  opening 
wide. 

"Mr.  Pawley's  calling,"  announced  Lola,  approaching 
from  the  rear. 

Boly,  swaddled  in  furs,  stood  on  the  centre  of  the  parlour 
rug.  He  was  in  one  of  his  sacrificial  moods,  which  always 
affected  him  unpleasantly. 

"Well,  you  got  here,  didn't  you?"  began  Rosa. 

"I  thought  we  were  going  to  take  Burgeonville  buggy 
riding  or  something,"  he  reminded  her  bleakly. 

"Fluff?    She's  crazy  to  go.    She'll  be  down  in  a  minute.'* 

"What's  keeping  her — making  over  last  year's  hat  ?" 

"Really  I  wouldn't  say  that." 

"Or  dusting  the  camphor  balls  off  the  family  shawl  ?" 

"You're  an  outrageous  little  snob,  Boly  Pawley." 

"Quit  callin'  me  names.  I  gave  up  a  perfectly  ripping  tea 
dance  at  the  Columbine  Roof  just  to  come  and  dray  your 
country  cousin  round  town.  I've  even  picked  out  a  quiet 
restaurant  up  the  Hudson  where  almost  nobody  goes  this 
time  of  year  so  that  Fluff  won't  faint  away  when  she  sees 
the  wicked  behaviour  and  brilliant  costuming  of  the  na 
tives." 

"Of  course  you'll  have  to  break  that  sort  of  thing  very 
gradually  to  Fluff,"  agreed  Rosaline  quite  without  a  smile. 
Fortunately  she  had  inherited  old  Garry's  sense  of  humour. 

'Do  you  think  she'd  get  mad  if  I  smoked?"  asked  Boly, 
bringing  out  his  flat  and  slippery  golden  case. 

"I  wouldn't  try  it — at  first,"  warned  Rosa  in  solemn 
tones. 

At  that  moment  the  portieres  at  the  big  door  fluttered — • 
fluttered  and  separated.  It  was  as  though  a  tropic  bird  had 
winged  its  way  into  a  dim  forest  of  the  North.  In  the 
language  of  the  trade,  Cousin  Fluff's  afternoon  gown  was  of 
second  grade  rose  velveteen,  cut  with  exaggerated  pannier 
pockets  at  the  sides  and  draped  into  a  bustle  at  the  back. 
The  moyen-age  collar  of  imitation  ermine  was  cut  so  as  to 
hit  her  across  the  shoulder-blades,  giving  her  the  effect  of 


MOTHER'S  MILK  351 

a  young  lady  crawling  out  of  a  brilliantly  decorated  bag. 
The  skirt  sloped  sharply  inward  to  the  calf  of  the  leg, 
where  it  stopped  and  revealed  two  inches  of  gauze-thin 
champagne-coloured  stocking. 

"Miss  Annister,  Mr.  Pawley,"  announced  Rosa,  praying 
for  composure  as  she  beheld  the  look  of  helpless  astonish 
ment  upon  Boly's  knobby  features. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Annister?" 

He  strode  forward  and  manfully  presented  his  hand. 

"I've  heard  Cousin  Rosie  speak  of  you  so  often,"  said  the 
vision,  employing  her  killing  brown  eyes  upon  the  newly 
intended  victim.  Poor  Boly  stood  there,  struggling  between 
embarrassment  and  flattered  vanity. 

"I — I've  heard  Rosa  mention  you  so  much,  too,"  he  stam 
mered  thickly. 

"Oh!  I  hope  you're  not  disappointed?"  She  held  him 
with  her  brown  gaze  and  pouted  slightly. 

"Oh  no."  The  usually  glib  Boly  hesitated  for  words,  then 
stammered  baldly,  "You're  really  much  more  wonderful 
than  I  even  imagined." 

"Flatterer!"  she  pouted  again. 

"The  car's  waiting.  Let's  get  on  our  things,"  suggested 
Rosa  in  the  kindest  possible  tone. 

In  the  moment  of  solitude  which  followed  Boly  Pawley 
indulged  in  a  strange  bit  of  pantomime.  First  with  the 
broad  of  his  palm  he  smote  his  knobby  forehead,  at  the 
same  moment  rolling  his  Boston  terrier  eyes  in  the  direction 
where,  theoretically,  a  witnessing  heaven  should  be.  Then 
he  opened  out  his  golden  cigarette  case,  struck  a  match  and 
inhaled  deeply. 

After  he  had  helped  the  ladies  into  the  big  grey  racer  at 
the  curb,  the  girl  with  the  checkered  coat  leaned  over  and 
giggled, 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  it's  one  of  those  swell  roof-garden  res 
taurants  where  everybody  goes.  I  want  to  see  some  of  the 
people  I've  been  reading  about  all  my  life !" 


352  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


in 

It  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  since  Fluff 
Annister  had  arrived  at  the  Peabody  house  that  the  difficult 
guest  sat  upon  her  bed  upstairs  and  decided  that  her  feeling 
for  the  Peabodys  was  something  deeper  than  mere  con 
tempt.  She  hated  every  seeming-kindly,  purse-proud  one  of 
them.  They  were  everything  her  mother  in  a  moment  of 
envenomed  candour,  the  occasion  being  Fluff's  departure 
from  Burgeonville,  had  said  of  them.  Plainly  now  the 
words  of  that  ill-natured  prophecy  came  back  to  Fluff. 

Her  mother  had  been  fussing  round  the  bleak  bedroom  to 
which  a  coal-oil  stove  gave  tepid  warmth.  Heman  Sutler 
had  just  removed  the  family  trunk  and  Mrs.  Sutler  had 
departed  from  her  labour  of  love  with  the  assurance, 
"They're  just  too  tasty  for  anything." 

The  aging  woman,  whose  once-enchanting  eyes  were 
hollow  in  her  head,  was  still  thumbing  the  copy  of  Splurge 
from  which  she  had  copied  several  of  Fluff's  gowns  and 
she  was  pondering  over  the  pictured  lady  who  bore  the 
number  "131"  as  she  looked  forth  with  alluring  slits  for 
eyes,  no  mouth  to  speak  of  and  never-fading  roses  on  either 
cheek. 

"This  sweet  dancing  frock,"  read  the  text  below,  "shows 
again  the  autumn's  tendency  among  the  haut  monde — free 
dom  and  yet  more  freedom " 

"Fluff,  just  as  you  say,  I've  worked  myself  almost  to 
death,"  Mrs.  Annister  had  croaked  in  a  voice  which  was 
always  hoarse  nowadays  "I'm  glad  you're  going  to  look  so 
stylish  and  I  think  my  taste  is  better  than  some  who  pride 
themselves.  But  these  disgusting  Peabodys  are  giving  you 
a  chance  which  is  only  your  right,  and  you  must  make 
the  most  of  it.  A  chance  to  bring  the  family  back  where 
it  belongs.  It's  my  right  and  your  father's.  There  aren't 
any  men  in  the  village  worth  having.  These  harum-scarum 
college  boys — and  Charlie  White.  Charlie'll  have  to  do  if 


MOTHER'S  MILK  353 

^ •• ••^^•••••^^•^^•^••••^^^•^ 

there's  nothing  left.  I  think  I've  taught  you  how  to  get  a 
beau." 

"I  think  you  have,"  Fluff  had  agreed. 

"Remember,  the  world  owes  a  beautiful  woman  wealth 
and  comfort.  I've  been  cheated  out  of  it  and  I  don't  intend 
my  daughter  shall.  Don't  go  mooning  round  about  love. 
There's  no  such  thing."  The  bitter  woman's  narrow  jaw  had 
closed  like  a  steel  trap  and  her  eyes,  from  which  enchant 
ment  had  faded,  had  lacquered  with  cold  hate.  "Jewels,  fine 
clothes,  fashion,  luxury — they're  made  to  offset  your  good 
looks.  Only  a  fool  will  marry  a  poor  man.  Don't  be 
prudish.  Keep  them  sentimental — but  see  that  every  kiss 
counts  for  something  They  say  there's  a  rich  man  to  every 
block  in  York.  Don't  be  too  gingerly  with  Rosie's  beaux. 
We  don't  owe  the  Peabodys  any  favours." 

"There  won't  be  any  love  lost,"  Fluff  had  assured  her. 

"Love !  They're  fair  game  for  us — purse-proud,  strutting 
vulgarians — with  all  their  flunkies  and  fine  clothes  and  rich 
houses.  They  think  they  can  keep  my  daughter  out  in  the 
cold  like  a  snow-bird — throw  her  a  crumb  from  their  table. 
All  right.  Accept  their  board-and-keep  for  a  week,  Fluff. 
Yes,  and  if  that  strutting  little  cock-robin  of  a  cousin  of 
yours  thinks  she's  so  irresistible,  you  can  walk  away  with 
her  beau,  too." 

"I  think  I  can,"  Fluff  had  replied  as  she  heard  the  bells 
of  Charlie  White's  cutter  approaching  to  take  her  to  the 
station. 

"Fluff,"  the  faded,  terrible  womfan  had  besought,  cling 
ing  to  her  as  she  said  good-bye,  "there  isn't  coal  enough  in 

the  cellar  to  keep  us  a  month  and  Lordy  knows But 

I  won't  begrudge  the  sacrifice  if  you'll  promise  me  one 
thing." 

"Yes,  Mamma." 

"Don't  you  take  any  favours  from  them.  Don't  you 
let  them  patronise  you — don't  you  let  them  lend  you  a  thing 
— do  you  hear  ?" 

Mrs.  Annister  had  stood  wheezing  through  her  feeble 


354  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

tubes  and  her  true  daughter  had  taken  her  to  her  bosom, 
promising  not  to  be  beholden  to  those  upstarts  for  any 
favour  under  the  sun.  .  .  . 

Well,  here  was  the  fourth  day  of  Fluff's  stay  with  the 
Peabodys  and  on  the  edge  of  her  dainty  bed  she  sat  engaged 
in  an  amateurish  effort  to  convert  the  lower  folds  of  her 
green  velvet  evening  gown  into  a  regular  skirt  by  means  of 
pinning  a  hem  in  such  a  way  as  to  attract  less  attention  than 
it  was  originally  designed  to  attract.  Splurge,  that  monthly 
oracle  of  style,  had  recommended  this  draped  and  tasselled 
model  for  its  Oriental  Pantalon  Effect,  but  brief  experience 
in  the  metropolis  had  weakened  her  heart  for  startling  novel 
ties,  despite  the  oracular  assurance  of  Splurge  that  such  a 
costume  had  been  worn  by  Mrs.  van  Horn  Tweebank  at  the 
opening  of  the  opera  season. 

One  by  one,  Fluff  jabbed  pins  into  that  obdurate  hem, 
spitefully  as  though  every  point  were  smarting  in  the  skin 
of  her  temperamental  enemies.  By  one  means  or  another 
the  Peabodys  had  managed  to  make  her  visit  a  continual 
misery.  To  look  at  the  way  Rosa  behaved,  reflected  Fluff, 
you  would  think  she  were  the  reigning  queen  of  beauty  and 
fashion.  In  the  estimation  of  the  cousin  from  up-State, 
Miss  Peabody  was  little  better  than  downright  ugly.  She 
didn't  know  how  to  do  her  hair  so  that  anybody  would 
notice  it  and  her  gowns  were  obviously  lacking  in  anything 
like  style.  And  what  the  fashionable  Mr.  Pawley  could  see 
in  her  was  a  mystery  to  Fluff  Annister. 

Ever  since  her  arrival  the  girl  from  Burgeonville  had  been 
engaged  in  a  continual  struggle  to  keep  her  temper;  should 
she  lose  it  there  would  be  nothing  to  do  but  go  home  and 
acknowledge  defeat  before  her  Spartan  mother.  No.  She 
chose  to  see  the  horrid  week  to  its  bitter  conclusion.  She 
almost  wished  Charlie  White  would  come  down  as  he  had 
threatened.  And  then  she  became  obsessed  with  terror  lest 
he  should.  Charlie  would  furnish  the  last  humiliating  touch. 
Every  night  here  had  been  worse  than  the  last.  First  they 
had  given  her  a  dinner-party  which,  in  her  morbid  esti- 


MOTHER'S  MILK 


mation,  had  been  solely  designed  to  humiliate  the  guest  of 
honour.  They  had  seated  her  next  to  the  wonderful  Mr. 
Pawley  and  that  man  of  fashion  would  too  evidently  have 
none  of  her.  The  realisation  that  this  charming  blade  of  the 
world  was  infatuated  with  her  cousin  added  to  Fluff's  im 
potent  rage.  He  had  kept  up  a  sort  of  chaffing  she  didn't 
understand,  and  managed  to  convey  the  impression  that 
Fluff  was  anything  but  vogue.  Fluff  had  thought  the  other 
girls  quite  dowdy.  Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was 
something  wrong  with  the  wardrobe  over  which  her  mother 
and  the  fashion-mentor  of  Burgeonville  had  slaved  those 
unremitting  weeks  ?  She  could  have  slapped  Mr.  Pawley. 

On  the  second  night  she  had  barely  got  home  without 
making  a  scene.  It  had  been  a  dinner  dance  at  a  big  apart 
ment  on  Riverside  Drive,  and  she  didn't  consider  that  most 
of  the  people  she  saw  there  knew  how  to  dance.  A  gawky 
freshman  had  taken  her  round  the  floor  for  a  miserable 
whirl.  Mr.  Pawley  had  deigned  to  look  her  up  late  in  the 
evening  and  made  a  feeble  excuse  about  spraining  his  ankle 
at  St.  Nicholas  Rink  —  this  in  the  face  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  seen  him  spinning  blithely  with  Rosa  most  of  the 
evening.  When  at  last  she  had  teased  him  to  the  centre 
of  the  floor  and  had  essayed  to  show  him  her  own  version 
of  the  fox  trot,  he  had  giggled  and  said, 

"Cut  out  the  Follies  stuff,  cousin.  Your  aunt's  looking 
cross  like  an  eagle." 

Uncle  Garry  had  taken  them  to  the  theatre  on  the  third 
night.  That  had  been  practically  a  blank  so  far  as  Fluff 
was  concerned.  She  had  worn  her  pink  silk  with  the  ropes 
of  pearl  over  the  shoulders  and  had  sat  next  to  her  Uncle 
Garry  while  Boly  devoted  himself  to  her  cousin.  She  re 
garded  Mr.  Peabody  as  a  crude,  good-natured  old  simpleton 
whose  views  on  life  bored  her  to  the  verge  of  hysterics. 

And  so  had  sped  the  days. 

Sequestered  in  the  light  of  this  wintry  afternoon  Fluff 
continued  hatefully  to  drive  pins  into  the  garment  in  which 
her  faith  was  beginning  to  dwindle.  Secretly  she  had  come 


356  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^™ "^ •"•"•^"^^ ™ ^^~~ ***™"<  ^ 

to  the  conclusion  that  the  Pantalon  Effect  which  Mrs.  Sutler 
had  so  highly  recommended  would  not  meet  with  the  ap 
proval  of  gay  New  York's  chaste  standards.  Mr.  Pawley 
was  giving  his  box  party  to-night  and  Fluff  had  become  des 
perate.  She  had  lost  her  ambition  to  appear  different — 
and  yet  she  would  have  put  out  both  her  expressive  brown 
eyes  rather  than  ask  one  word  of  advice  or  one  stitch  of 
help  from  that  family  which  crushed  her  with  their  superior 
smiles. 

At  that  very  instant  Mrs.  Peabody  and  her  daughter  were 
holding  a  consultation  upon  Fluff's  case.  They  were 
closeted  together  in  Mrs.  Peabody's  fussy  bedroom. 

"She's  having  a  perfectly  rotten  time,"  agreed  Rosa  again. 

"Hopelessly  conceited,"  was  her  mother's  reiterated  com 
ment.  "If  she'd  only  let  a  body  give  her  some  advice." 

"Boly  says  she  rents  her  clothes  from  the  Hippodrome. 
Of  course  Boly  isn't  at  all  nice  about  such  things." 

"Her  dancing  is  perfectly  outrageous,"  put  in  Mrs.  Pea- 
body,  whose  social  comments  always  erred  on  the  side  of 
mildness.  "Where  do  you  suppose  she  picked  it  up  ?" 

"When  Boly  gave  her  a  hint  she  got  mad  and  went  home." 

Mrs.  Peabody,  who  was  knitting  a  sweater,  clicked  her 
needles  together  and  looked  up  over  rimless  eyeglasses. 

"Seriously,  I  think  the  poor  child  is  doing  herself  a 
great  injury.  Her  skirts  are  inches  too  short — and  that 
awful  checkerboard  coat!  I  declare,  Rosie,  when  I  saw 
her  coming  down  in  that  pink  dress,  eyes  made  up  to  kill 
and  her  hair  bobbed  off  in  that  ridiculous  way — actually,  I 
thought  we  had  made  a  mistake  and  asked  a  chorus  girl  to 
visit  us.  She  laughs  too  loud  and  doesn't  seem  satisfied  un 
less  she's  alone  somewhere  with  a  young  man * 

"After  all,  we've  got  to  be  alone  sometimes,  or  we'll  never 
get  married,"  Rosa  sagely  reminded  her  mother. 

"I  had  to  speak  to  her  or  she  would  have  gone  away— 
quite  unchaperoned,  mind  you — to  lunch  with  that  awful 
Inness  boy." 


MOTHER'S  MILK  357 

i 

"And  you  were  the  one,"  her  daughter  pointed  out,  "who 
were  afraid  Fluff  would  be  shocked  by  our  wild  city  ways." 

"She's  sulky  and  sensitive  and  high  strung,"  went  on  the 
placid  woman.  "She  knows  she  isn't  getting  on  and  she 
must  have  some  inkling  that  it's  her  clothes.  Don't  you 
think" — in  her  temerity  Mrs.  Peabody  dropped  a  stitch — 
"that  there's  some  way  of  hinting  to  her " 

"About  the  way  she  dresses?" 

Mrs.  Peabody  nodded  significantly. 

"What  could  I  say  ?  I  couldn't  walk  up  to  her  and  begin, 
'Dearest,  you  would  look  all  right  in  Hawaii,  but  here  your 
make-up  scares  the  natives.'  She'd  merely  have  a  brain 
storm." 

"Perhaps  you  could  think  of  some  diplomatic  way. 
Couldn't  you  make  an  excuse  to  offer  her  one  of  your 
dresses  for  the  theatre  to-night?  Otherwise,  there's  no 
knowing  what  she'll  put  on." 

"She's  making  a  mess  of  her  visit,"  agreed  Rosa.  "But 
it's  as  much  as  your  life's  worth  to  speak  to  her." 

Nevertheless  Rosa  did  take  her  life  in  her  hands  and 
walk  across  the  hall  to  Fluff's  room.  After  a  tap  she  heard 
a  harsh  clearing  of  the  throat  and  the  dry  summons,  "Come 
in !"  Fluff  was  still  fussing  with  the  emerald  velvet. 

"My  dear!"  Rosa  was  quick  to  this  providential  oppor 
tunity.  "Why  don't  you  get  Olga  to  stitch  it  for  you  ?  She's 
downstairs  without  a  thing  to  do " 

"No,  thank  you,"  replied  the  country  cousin  ungraciously. 

"Were  you  thinking  of  wearing  it  to-night?"  asked  Rosa. 

"That  was  the  idea." 

"Dearest,  let's  be  sensible."  Rosa  sat  on  the  bed  and 
began  fingering  the  cheap  material.  "I  don't  think  I've  got 
anything  so  becoming  as  this." 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it."    She  looked  up  with  a  hostile  smile. 

"But  when  we're  visiting,  it's  next  to  impossible  to  have 
everything  we  want  for  every  occasion." 

Fluff  widened  her  handsome  eyes  which,  when  unadorned 


358  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

for  public  appearances,  were  a  trifle  less  handsome  than 
was  generally  supposed. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  it's  nearly  five  and  I  don't  think  you  can  alter  that 
gown  before  dressing  time." 

"That's  what  I  intend  to  do,"  replied  Fluff,  drawing  down 
the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"I've  got  several  gowns  you  could  put  on  in  a  minute — 
my  things  would  fit  you  perfectly — and  you  could  have  this 
done  overnight  by  Olga. 

"No,  thank  you."  Fluff  pleated  a  pin  savagely  into  the 
hem. 

"I'm  sorry."  Rosa  was  hurt  and  looked  it  as  she  came 
to  her  feet  and  took  a  step  toward  the  door.  "I  only 
thought  I'd  tell  you  in  case  you  needed  anything." 

"My  mother  has  provided  me  with  everything  I  need," 
announced  Fluff  with  icy  distinctness. 

"I'm  sorry  I  interfered." 

When  Rosa  went  out  she  slammed  the  door. 

About  dinner  time  Fluff  decided  it  couldn't  be  done,  so 
she  tacked  the  draperies  and  tassels  back  in  place  and  wore 
the  gown  just  as  the  modish  Mrs.  Sutler  had  intended  it 
should  be  worn.  Boly  Pawley  was  dining  with  the  family 
to-night.  No  one  seemed  in  the  least  surprised  at  her  cos 
tume  when  she  came  down  rather  late.  She  had  a  con 
scious  feeling  about  the  eccentric  drapery  at  her  ankles. 
The  elder  Peabodys  were  dressed  for  the  party  and  Uncle 
Garry  was  his  usual  hilarious  self.  Aunt  Nan  seemed 
politely  composed;  but  from  across  the  table  Fluff  could 
see  the  averted  glance  of  her  cousin.  How  she  hated  that 
girl !  How  she  prayed  for  power  to  dazzle  young  Pawley 
away  from  the  arrogant  charm  of  that  purse-proud,  con 
temptible  little  Rosa! 

Jealous  hatred  and  mangled  pride  kept  her  abed  next 
morning  and  caused  her  to  plead  a  headache  at  noon  rather 
than  go  down  to  lunch  and  face  her  persecutors.  She  lay 


MOTHER'S  MILK  359 

r^T*™"^™ """""^"""""^ 

among  the  pillows,  glaring  at  the  detestable  luxuries  being 
forced  upon  her;  she  wondered  why  she  didn't  get  up  and 
pack  her  trunk.  Under  her  window,  on  the  walk  going 
round  the  house,  she  could  hear  men  clattering  in  and  out 
of  the  Fernery — probably  florists  with  decorations  for  the 
dance  to-night.  "In  Miss  Annister's  honour" — what  a  sar 
casm! 

The  box-party  last  night  had  been  a  nightmare  to  Fluff. 
No  one  had  paid  her  more  than  a  punctiliously  polite  atten 
tion.  Some  one  had  giggled  as  she  passed  in  her  Oriental 
Effect  and  she  had  heard  a  coarse  voice  inquire,  "How  do 
they  get  that  way  ?"  The  fascinating  Mr.  Pawky,  whose  in 
difference  stung  Fluff  to  a  mad  desire,  had  looked  at  her 
once  and  stuck  close  to  Rosa  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
There  had  been  a  calfish  young  man  named  Trambell  who 
had  devoted  himself  to  Mrs.  Peabody,  as  if  in  avoidance  of 
graver  terrors.  A  fat  lady  in  the  next  box  had  used  her 
fierce  lorgnettes  on  Fluff's  emerald  velvet.  The  evening  had 
been  worse  than  wasted.  She  had  been  paired  off  with 
Uncle  Garry,  who  had  bored  her  so  that  she  wanted  to 
scream.  Boly  and  Rosa  had  cackled  together  in  a  language 
of  their  own.  It  had  been  wormwood  to  the  daughter  of 
Sophie  Annister. 

After  hours  of  these  cankering  thoughts  Fluff  got  tired 
of  lying  abed.  She  arose  frowsily  and  peered  out  into  the 
sunlight  of  early  afternoon.  On  the  walk  below  two  men 
were  struggling  round  to  the  outside  door  of  the  Fernery 
with  a  tall  palm  in  a  green  tub.  Evidently  the  Peabodys 
were  going  to  outdo  themselves  to-night.  The  sight  of  the 
festive  greens  caused  Fluff  to  snort  like  a  young  war-mare, 
scenting  battle.  In  a  flash  she  made  up  her  mind  about 
Boly  Pawley.  He  had  asked  them  out  for  another  of  his 
automobile  rides  at  four.  Rosa,  of  course,  had  expected  her 
to  refuse.  Not  she ! 

She  was  in  the  act  of  choosing  an  Effect  from  the  ward 
robe  she  now  despised  when  there  came  a  knock  at  her  door. 
Opening  cautiously  and  peeping  round  the  crack,  she  could 


360  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

see  the  blue-black  complexion  of  Lola  under  its  ridiculously 
dainty  cap.  One  dusky  hand  was  holding  a  little  silver  tray 
in  the  exact  centre  of  which  lay  a  calling  card. 

"For  me?"  asked  Fluff,  confused. 

"Yas'm." 

She  reached  forth  for  the  pasteboard,  which  bore  upon  its 
face  in  bold  business  script  the  printed  announcement : 

CHAS.  W.  WHITE 
Contracting  Engineer 

BURGEONVILLE,    N.   Y. 

Charlie  White !  Then  the  poor  blundering  simpleton  had 
carried  out  his  threat ! 

"My  goodness "  she  hesitated  just  a  moment.  "Would 

you  tell  him  I'm  quite  ill  to-day  and  can't  see  any  one?" 

"Yas'm." 

Lola  retreated  a  few  steps. 

"Lola!" 

"Yas'm." 

"Tell  him  to  wait.    I'll  be  down  after  a  while." 

It  was  just  like  Charlie.  Without  the  least  hint  at  an  in 
vitation  he  had  forced  himself  upon  the  scene  of  her 
humbling.  She  thought  rapidly.  There  was  no  possible  way 
of  using  him  as  a  bait  to  Boly  Pawley.  Boly  would  merely 
employ  his  worldly  sarcasm  and  set  them  off  as  a  couple 
of  jays.  This  would  be  adding  another  item  to  the  Pea- 
bodys'  unbearable  conceit.  She  enjoyed  a  snobbish  dread  of 
the  moment  when  she  must  introduce  the  up-State  boor 
and  see  their  sly-glanced  intimation,  "Is  this  the  best  you  can 
show?" 

Fluff  kept  Charlie  waiting  nearly  an  hour,  and  when  at 
last  she  walked  toward  the  ornate,  sombre  Peabody  drawing- 
room,  she  was  piqued  to  hear  the  buzzing  of  basso  mono 
logue,  punctuated  now  and  then  by  tinkles  of  feminine 
laughter.  She  took  one  sly  peep  through  the  portieres  and 
gasped  her  amazement  The  large  room  and  the  dining- 


MOTHER'S  MILK  361 

room  beyond  had  been  cleared  for  the  dance,  rugs  removed, 
floors  waxed,  walls  festooned  with  roses.  A  large  settee  had 
been  moved  half  across  the  doorway  of  the  Fernery,  which 
was  ajar,  revealing  a  forest  of  rubber-plants  in  its  glassy 
depths.  And  on  the  settee,  elbow  to  elbow  and  chatting  like 
lifelong  friends,  sat  Charlie  White  and  Cousin  Rosa ! 

Fluff's  first  impulse  was  to  throw  something ;  then  she  had 
a  mind  to  creep  back  to  the  sulky  silence  of  her  bedroom; 
then  a  jungle  instinct  got  control  of  her  and  urged  her  to 
spy  upon  her  enemy.  What  did  they  find  to  talk  about  so 
engrossingly,  these  two  who  had  never  heard  of  each  other 
until  this  hour?  Why  was  Charlie's  big  clumsy  face  all 
flushed  as  though  inspired  with  its  message?  Why  was 
Rosa  listening  as  though  to  the  voice  of  prophecy?  She 
looked  almost  pretty,  acknowledged  the  girl  in  ambush  with 
a  nauseating  heart-thump. 

Standing  there  behind  the  portieres  was  a  vantage  too 
exposed,  also  too  distant  for  effective  hearing.  Then  she 
remembered  the  Fernery.  The  place  seemed  clogged  with 
ferns,  palms  and  rubber-plants ;  by  tiptoeing  round  the  pas 
sage  by  the  butler's  pantry  one  could  gain  the  Fernery  by 
the  little  door  outside.  Her  nimble  feet  were  quick  to  serve 
her  plotting  brain.  There  was  no  one  in  the  passage  beyond 
the  pantry.  She  left  the  door  ajar  as  she  slunk  out  and  was 
cunningly  triumphant  to  find  the  Fernery  door  unlocked. 
Once  inside  she  found  the  tub  of  a  rubber  plant  less  than 
three  yards  behind  the  settee,  a  barricade  of  foliage  con 
veniently  between  her  and  the  big  room.  She  could  see  their 
two  heads  close  together  and  their  words  were  perfectly  dis 
tinct. 

"A  spigotty  engineer  had  been  working  eleven  years  with 
an  idea  of  tunnelling  the  Andes,"  Charlie  was  going  on  in  his 
big,  nasal  voice,  which  was  like  the  droning  of  a  gigantic 
bumble-bee.  "He  didn't  care  how  long  it  took  because  the 
Spanish  company  was  paying  him  by  the  year.  Then  comes 
that  Scotch  expert  saying  'Gang  aroond.'  His  name  was 


362  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

MacNee  and  he  was  very  generous  with  other  people's 
money.  ..." 

The  girl  behind  the  rubber  plant  sniffed  so  scornfully  she 
all  but  betrayed  herself.  So  Charlie  had  got  a  girl  to 
listen  to  his  tiresome  old  Peruvian  tales! 

"You  mean  to  say  a  system  of  cantilever  bridges  would 
save " 

"About  five  thousand  miles  on  the  Gang  Aroond  system," 
snorted  the  heavy  voice.  "And  there  isn't  a  mathematician 
alive  who  can  compute  the  number  of  millions  the  spigotty 
engineer  had  wasted  already  on  his  tunnels.  When  I  men 
tioned  cantilevers  the  spigotty  blew  up  all  over  Lima  and 
the  Scotchman  said  'Losh !'  and  asked  me  when  I  escaped. 
I  had  my  estimates  made  out  before  I  left  Lima,  but  the 
spigotty  got  nervous  and  saw  the  jefe,  who  called  me  nine 
kinds  of  Spanish  brigand  and  gave  me  a  military  escort  as 
far  as  the  Western  Addition.  I  lost  my  trunk,  my  passports, 
my  Sunday  sombrero  and  my  shoes ;  but  as  soon  as  I'd  beat 
it  to  the  coast  in  a  pair  of  misfit  overalls  I  went  straight  to 
see  Van  Doon,  who  sent  me  back  to  the  States  with  a  letter 
to  the  Sudbury  Corporation." 

"What  a  romance !"  the  soprano  was  chiming  in  a  distant 
rapture. 

"It  ain't  a  marker  on  what  it's  going  to  be,"  he  was  as 
suring  her.  "It  took  most  a  year  to  wake  up  the  Sudbury 
bunch  and  it  took  a  French  concern  with  another  cantilever 
scheme  to  get  a  rise  out  of  'em." 

"Have  you  brought  your  plans  with  you  ?" 

"You  wouldn't  care  to  see  'em.  They're  thick  as  a  bale 
of  hay." 

"Oh,  wouldn't  I !" 

"Gee!  I'd  be  tickled  blue  if  you  gave  'em  the  once  over. 
I  thought  girls  didn't  like  that  sort  of  stuff." 

"There  are  two  or  three  different  kinds  of  girls  in  the 
world." 

The  allusion  this  remark  conveyed  to  the  hiding  Fluff 
was  that  of  another  Peabody  slur  upon  her  mentality. 


MOTHER'S  MILK  363 

"I'll  sure  do  that.  But  say!"  The  settee  creaked  with 
his  sudden  arising.  "I've  got  my  nerve  to  come  here  calling 
on  one  girl  and  be  taking  the  time  of  another." 

"I  don't  know  what  could  have  happened  to  her,"  Rosa 
came  in.  "I'll  send  Lola  up  again  and  ask." 

"Don't  bother.  I've  got  to  be  going.  Very  pleased  to 
have  met  you." 

She  could  see  his  square,  uncouth,  bushy-headed  figure 
now  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"You've  been  awfully  good  to  tell  me  all  about  it."  She 
held  out  her  hand  with  a  maddening  graciousness.  "It  gives 
me  a  new  faith  in  life  to  think  of  men  working  forward  to 
big  things.  So  many  of  our  young  men  are  satisfied  with 
being  nothing,  doing  nothing " 

"They  have  everything  handed  to  them  on  a  hot  plate," 
chuckled  the  heavy  voice. 

"There's  nothing  big  in  having  things — it's  the  getting 
of  them  that  counts.  That's  what  I  adore  my  Dad  for — he 
had  something  that  sounded  silly  to  the  half-baked  thinkers 
and  he  made  good  on  it." 

The  words  clutched  Fluff  Annister  by  the  heart. 

"We're  giving  a  little  dance  to-night — half  after  nine," 
Rosa  was  going  on.  "I'm  sure  Fluff  would  love  to  have  you 
come." 

"Lord !    I  guessed  right  when  I  brought  my  Tuxedo !" 

"Then  we  can  count  on  you?" 

"You  sure  can.  And  tell  Fluff  I'll  'phone  her  if  her 
headache's  better." 

The  doorbell  rang  at  that  instant.  It  rang  alarmingly  to 
the  conscience-stricken  girl  in  the  Fernery.  Distantly  she 
heard  a  door  bang  and  the  voice  of  a  new  arrival. 

"Mr.  Pawley  to  see  you,  Miss,"  came  Lola's  announce 
ment. 

Fluff  shrank  further  behind  the  ferns,  fearful  that  the 
approaching  Pawley  would  catch  sight  of  her. 

"Oh,  hello,  Boly !    Mr.  White,  Mr.  Pawley.    Won't  you 


364  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

stay  for  tea,  Mr.  White?  No?  Then  good-bye  till  to 
night." 

Pawley  stood  gloomily  watching  the  heavy-set  man  out 
of  the  door.  Then  without  a  word  he  strode  over  to  the 
settee.  Rosa  came  and  sat  beside  him.  Fluff's  first  in 
stinct  was  to  steal  away  from  this  second  interview,  which 
she  had  no  heart  to  hear.  Then  insane  curiosity  got  the 
better  of  her. 

"Jove,  you've  taken  down  everything  but  the  wall  paper, 
haven't  you  ?"  came  Boly's  first  exclamation. 

"We're  doing  our  best,"  Rosa  chimed  in.  "We  want  to 
give  Fluff  a  good  send-off — but  of  course  there's  no  telling 
how  she'll  take  it." 

There  was  a  long  moment  of  silence  and  then  Rosa  was 
heard  to  say  in  a  small,  annoyed  voice, 

"Oh,  Boly,  I  wish  you'd  be  sensible." 

"Well,  I  don't  see  why " 

"Boly,  we  might  as  well  speak  out  now  as  any  time. 
There's  no  chance  in  all  the  world.  You're  a  dear  and  I 
ought  to  be  in  love  with  you — and  I  couldn't  even  consider 
such  an  absurd  thing.  Why  can't  we  put  things  on  a  rational 
basis?" 

"Rational  rot !  You're  talking  like  a  regular  female — let 
a  chap  spend  the  best  part  of  his  life  buzzing  round,  then 
take  a  notion  to  cut  him  off  your  string  like — like  a  cater 
pillar." 

"Boly,  you're  having  a  brainstorm." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  have?" 

"A  little  human  kindness.  You  promised  you'd  be  good 
to  Fluff  for  my  sake  and  here  you've  treated  her  like  a  beast 
of  the  field." 

"Honest,  Rosie,  there's  a  limit.  Her  clothes  remind  me 
of  a  fire  in  the  circus  tent.  She  might  go  with  the  Burgeon  • 
ville  smart  set,  but  here — positively  no.  Everything  in  i'.s 
place.  Rome  for  the  Romans,  Hippodrome  for  the  hip — 
but  Cousin  Fluff  won't  do." 


MOTHER'S  MILK  365 

"If  you  really  cared  anything  about  me  you'd  be  good 
to  Fluff." 

"Hold  her  on  my  knee  and  tell  her  fairy  stories  while 
you  dance,  I  suppose." 

"She  dances  far  better  than  I  do.  I  never  cared  much 
for  dancing." 

"She  wriggles  like  a  Coney  Island  cobra." 

"You  haven't  very  nice  ideas  about  women,  Bolingbroke 
Pawley." 

"I  see.  Would  you  prefer  me  to  make  love  to  your 
cousin  as  a  sort  of  proxy  arrangement  ?" 

"You  shouldn't  talk  like  that." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"I've  asked  you  several  times  and  you  haven't  paid  the 
slightest  attention.  I  know  poor  Fluff  doesn't  know  how  to 
dress  and  is  a  little  peculiar  in  her  manner  at  times,  but  I 
intend  her  visit  shan't  be  spoiled." 

"Will  you  like  me  better  if  I'm  good  to  her?" 

From  the  Fernery  Fluff  could  see  his  head  drooping  over 
toward  Rosa's. 

"I  like  you  well  enough,  Boly — and  that's  all." 

"All  right.     Good-bye  then." 

"Aren't  you  coming  to-night  ?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

His  note  was  perfectly  flat  and  Rosa's  bright,  consoling 
tone  followed  out  into  the  hall.  As  soon  as  the  dining-room 
was  empty  Fluff  arose  from  her  cramped  posture  and 
slunk  away.  The  last  straw  had  been  laid  upon  her  break 
ing  back.  Rosa  Peabody,  whose  offer  of  cast-off  clothes 
she  had  so  savagely  rejected,  was  now  offering  her  cast-off 
lover ! 

As  soon  as  she  had  gained  the  bedroom  Fluff  locked  the 
door  and  snatched  a  time-table  out  of  her  bureau  drawer. 
There  was  a  train  leaving  at  nine  which  would  connect  her 
with  Burgeonville.  Of  course  her  going  would  raise  a 
storm,  but  she  was  determined  she  should  stay  under  this 
roof  not  another  hour.  She  began  getting  out  her  gowns, 


366  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

mussing  them  savagely  as  she  threw  them  in  untidy  piles 
on  the  bed.  For  the  first  time  she  began  to  feel  resentment 
against  her  mother,  whose  ill  judgment  had  got  her  into 
this  mortifying  mess.  .  .  .  "You  promised  to  be  good  to 
Fluff  for  my  sake"  .  .  .  the  memory  of  her  cousin's 
words  stung  like  a  box  on  the  ear.  .  .  . 

Then  it  occurred  to  Fluff  that  she  must  call  some  one  to 
bring  her  trunk.  There  would  be  an  awful  fuss.  She 
longed  for  the  crisis,  a  chance  to  come  out  in  the  open  and 
tell  the  P-eabody  outfit  what  she  thought  of  them.  .  .  . 

Half-way  across  the  room,  as  she  went  toward  the  push 
button  on  the  wall,  she  stopped  so  abruptly  as  to  all  but 
topple  over.  She  stood  just  an  instant,  her  finger  to  her 
lips.  And  then  there  came  to  her  such  a  smik  as  Sophie 
Whipple  had  known  how  to  use  in  the  days  when  she 
counted  for  something  on  the  Lake. 

A  moment  later  Fluff  was  gliding  down  the  hall  toward 
her  cousin's  room.  She  knocked  and  heard  the  little  piping 
response  coming  from  within.  Rosa  sat  before  the  mirror, 
her  bright  hair  down  and  a  mulatto  maid  laying  out  all  the 
dainty  accessories  to  the  gown  on  the  frivolous  bed. 

"Hello,  dear!"  upspoke  Rosa  forgivingly.  "I  do  hope 
your  headache  is  better." 

"It's  a  lot  better,  thank  you." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  she  felt  quite  ill  at  that  instant;  her 
knees  were  giving  way  and  she  had  a  task  of  it. 

"Mr.  White  called  to  see  you.  He  waited  quite  a  while. 
He  was  dreadfully  disappointed  and  a  little  bored  with  me, 
I  think." 

"I  got  his  card,"  said  Fluff  miserably. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to  see  him,  so  I  asked  him  to 
the  dance  to-night." 

"That  was  very  nice  of  you.     Er " 

"If  you're  not  feeling  well,  dear,  couldn't  I  lend  you 
Minnie  to  help  you  do  your  hair  ?"  enquired  Rosa  as  though 
she  had  guessed  her  thoughts. 


MOTHER'S  MILK  367 

Fluff's  heart  leapt  so  wildly  that  it  was  a  space  before  she 
could  speak. 

"Rosie,"  she  said  at  last,  "I — I  don't  seem  to  have  the 
right  things  to  wear — I " 

Her  cousin  turned  wide  eyes  upon  her  in  blank  amaze 
ment. 

" — and  I  was  wondering  if  you  happened  to  have  a 
dress  you  wouldn't  mind  my  borrowing  just  for  to-night?" 

IV 

Boly  Pawley,  who  for  hours  had  been  wooing  euthanasia 
by  means  of  Mr.  Peabody's  veritable  old  vatted  Killybonnie, 
pulled  himself  together  at  mid-evening  with  the  determina 
tion  that  he  would  try  again  to  have  a  word  with  Rosa. 
He  was  gently  spiffed,  as  he  acknowledged  to  himself,  and 
he  didn't  care  who  knew  it.  He  had  come  there  as  a  protest, 
to  lurk  and  glare,  to  be  a  social  outlaw;  and  above  all  to 
show  Rosa  that  he  would  take  no  country  cousin  as  a 
substitute.  His  contrary  little  mind  had  been  set  upon  a 
cool  snubbing  of  Miss  Fluff  Annister.  He  was  denied  that 
icy  comfort,  too,  because  he  had  caught  no  flash  of  Miss 
Annister's  grotesque  costuming  among  the  whirling  couples 
on  the  floor. 

Grumpily  at  last  he  deserted  the  refreshment  table  and 
skirted  round  the  busy  floor.  He  was  aware  of  Rosa's 
creamy  gown  weaving  its  way  among  the  dancers.  She  was 
again  in  the  arms  of  the  big  fellow  who  so  obviously  needed 
a  haircut.  Where  did  she  pick  up  the  bounder  and  why 
had  she  chosen  this  public  place  to  give  the  fellow  dancing 
lessons?  It  was  a  wonder  some  one  wouldn't  tell  him  not 
to  come  to  an  evening  party  in  a  dinner  jacket! 

"Oh  well,"  thought  Boly,  who  had  never  been  a  slave  to 
consistency,  "I  suppose  I've  got  to  look  up  the  Sofa  Cushion 
or  go  home." 

The  young  lady  whom  he  had  thus  tabulated  wasn't  so 
easy  to  look  up,  as  it  turned  out.  He  had  probably  stared 


368  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

straight  at  her  without  recognition  two  or  three  times  dur 
ing  the  evening,  for  she  had  to  make  herself  known  when 
at  last  she  came  out  of  the  Fernery,  several  youths 
pestering  her  for  a  dance. 

"By  George!"  he  permitted  himself  to  exclaim  when  at 
last  her  identity  was  established  among  his  jumbled 
thoughts. 

Her  elegant  little  figure  stood  straight  and  slim  in  a  dark, 
simple  gown  with  a  silver  girdle.  Somehow  she  had  man 
aged  to  gather  up  her  light  hair  so  that  the  fearful  bobbed 
effect  had  disappeared ;  it  gave  a  new  distinction  to  her  small 
face,  from  which  the  sullenness  had  gone.  Apparently  she 
was  having  a  very  good  time,  basking  in  the  atmosphere  of 
praise  which  her  competitive  adorers  had  created. 

Boly  Pawley  touched  his  furry  upper  lip,  a  way  he  had 
when  hesitant.  Had  she  seen  him  out  of  a  corner  of  her 
eye?  He  was  again  weakly  resolved  to  rebellion  when  she 
turned  and  gave  him  the  full  force  of  her  smile.  She  cer 
tainly  did  know  how  to  wear  her  complexion ! 

Boly  walked  across  eagerly,  for  her  expressive  eyes  had 
plainly  beckoned  him. 

"I  thought  you  weren't  going  to  speak  to  me,"  she  pouted 
as  he  came  up. 

"I've  been  standing  in  line  for  hours  and  hours,"  he  ar 
dently  protested. 

It  happened  like  dream-magic.  The  obstructing  college 
boys  seemed  to  melt  into  nothing  as  he  swung  her  across  the 
floor  in  a  fox  trot  from  which  no  variations  were  omitted. 
What  did  he  care  now  if  Aunt  Nan  was  glaring  her  prim 
disapproval?  After  all  a  touch  o'  life  was  the  only  real 
thing  to  be  had.  If  there  was  anything  Boly  Pawley  could 
do  it  was  to  dance ;  and  in  this  hour  of  revelation,  prejudice 
swept  aside,  he  had  to  admit  that  this  little  outlander — who 
might  have  learned  her  technique  at  the  Follies — made  her 
cousin  look  like  a  wagon-load  of  bricks. 

"You're  not  afraid  of  the  Coney  Island  cobra?"  he  was 
sure  he  heard  her  giggle  in  his  ear. 


MOTHER'S  MILK  369 

"I  say,  what's  that?" 

"Coney  Island  cobra,"  came  the  taunt  a  second  time. 

He  skipped  a  step  and  all  but  stumbled. 

"Who  in  the  world  told  you  that  ?" 

"Oh,  I  know  lots  and  lots  of  things — clumsy,  you've 
stepped  on  my  toe !" 

"I'm  sorry."  He  righted  himself,  then  asked  in  a  blaze 
of  indignation,  "Has  Rosie  been  talking?" 

"You  don't  expect  to  say  all  those  witty  things  and  not 
have  them  repeated,  do  you?" 

"Well,  I  like  that!"  The  seasoned  worldling  blushed 
deep,  then  he  fumbled  for  an  apology.  "It  was  a  slander, 
anyhow.  You're  one  of  the  best  dancers  I've  ever  met." 

"And  you're  the  wittiest  man  in  New  York.  I  don't  blame 
you  for  saying  bright  things  at  other  people's  expense. 
Rome  for  the  Romans,  Hippodrome  for  the " 

"Have  a  heart,  Fluff!" 

"Who  said  you  could  call  me  that?" 

"I  permit  it."  Boly  was  now  recovering  his  natural 
brass.  "And  when  you  call  me  Boly  I'll  sit  up  and  bark." 

"Boly  Pawley — sounds  like  a  cannibal  king." 

"Bolingbroke — accent  on  the  last  syllable  after  the  first 
of  each  month." 

Meanwhile  he  was  executing  some  wonderful  figures.  He 
could  see  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Peabody  sitting  together 
against  the  wall,  their  faces  petrified  with  horror. 

The  music  stopped.  As  the  couples  came  to  a  standstill 
and  polite  spats  of  applause  went  out  to  the  jazz  artists  on 
the  platform  Boly  caught  a  swift  glimpse  of  Rosa  standing 
at  his  elbow,  absorbed  in  the  uncouth  fellow  with  the  bushy 
hair. 

"I  can  just  see  them !"  she  was  saying  in  an  enraptured 
tone  she  had  never  used  for  Boly.  "Great  caravans  of 
llamas  winding  down  from  the  snowy  mountains  with  sacks 
of  silver  ore — just  as  they  were  before  Cortez  came." 

"If  the  Incas  had  known  the  value  of  transportation  the 


370  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

Spanish  couldn't  have  licked  them  in  a  million  years,"  the 
bushy  fellow  was  booming  on. 

Boly  turned  and  gave  the  couple  a  vulgar  stare.  The 
music  started  again  and  the  re-converted  girl  from  Bur- 
geonville  twitched  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"We're  not  going  to  forget  the  encore,"  she  reminded  him 
in  a  constrained  voice. 

"I  tell  you  something!"  suggested  Boly. 

"You  can  tell  me  a  lot,  I  think."  Her  eyes  were  playing 
with  him  now  and  the  sensation  was  narcotic. 

"On  the  refreshment  table  they  have  a  bowl  of  Absentee 
punch." 

"Of  what?"    Her  admiration  enveloped  him  like  a  cloud. 

"Absentee  punch — you  take  a  bottle  of  wine  and  ten 
pounds  of  ice.  Rub  the  bottle  on  the  ice  until  both  are  blood 
warm.  Add  lemon  peel  and  serve  with  seltzer." 

"Delicious !"  Fluff  permitted  herself  to  be  dragged  away. 

Boly  took  a  highball  after  all.  Then  they  danced  again 
and  in  the  wait  for  an  encore  she  complained  of  fatigue; 
so  it  was  quite  natural  that  Boly  should  have  suggested  the 
Fernery. 

"You're  not  at  all  the  girl  I  thought  you  were,"  Boly  told 
her  behind  a  spreading  palm. 

"You  shouldn't  judge  by  first  appearances." 

It  was  a  bromidiom,  but  he  didn't  care  what  she  said. 
Her  eyes  were  wonderful  and  the  pencilling  of  the  lashes 
offset  them  like  a  frame. 

"You  know,"  Boly  confided,  cuddling  very  close,  "I've 
been  about  a  great  deal,  but  I'm  a  silly  ass  in  lots  of  things 
—crazy  about  appearances.  I  think  Rosie  must  have  in 
fluenced  me.  You  know  the  way  girls  have  of  saying  sweet 
things  to  put  another  girl  in  wrong." 

"I'd  never  have  thought  it  of  Rosie,  though,"  mused  Fluff 
in  a  wounded  tone. 

"And  I  didn't  realise  how  really  smart  you  were — until 
to-night " 


MOTHER'S  MILK  371 

r""*^"""^^^^^^^^  • 

"How  do  you  like  my  gown?"  she  besought  his  valued 
opinion. 

"A  pippin!"  His  eyes  were  popping  with  admiration. 
"I'm  going  to  fess  up.  Do  you  know  I  never  saw  you  until 
to-night?  Those  circus  clothes  you  wore " 

"Oh."  She  looked  away,  her  little  face  puckered  as 
though  she  were  about  to  cry.  "I  was  afraid  you  never 
understood  the  joke." 

"Joke?"  he  echoed  stupidly. 

"Rosie  put  me  up  to  it.  She  had  the  best  intentions  in 
the  world — but  I  think  she  carried  it  a  little  too  far.  She 
wrote  me  before  I  came  down  that  you  expected  to  see  a 
little  country  girl  in  a  sunbonnet  and  suggested  that  I  bring 
down  those  awful  things  that  I  wore  in  a  melodrama  we 
gave  for  charity  at  home.  I  confess  I  was  embarrassed 
when  she  let  it  go  so  far " 

"That  was  a  low  trick  to  play  you !"  he  muttered,  reach 
ing  over  for  her  hand.  She  permitted  it. 

"Please  don't  be  cross  with  poor  Rosie.  She  meant  it 
well — only  it  was  a  little  hard  on  me." 

"She's  shown  herself  up  plain  enough.  I'm  done  with 
Rosie " 

"Oh,  don't  say  that!  I  should  never  forgive  myself  if 
t  thought  I'd  stepped  in  between  lifelong  friends." 

"I  can't  blame  her  for  being  a  bit  nervous  with  you  in  the 
house.  But  that's  no  excuse  for  not  playing  the  game.  She 
went  around  publishing  you  as  a  little  greenhorn — the  green 
was  all  in  Rosie's  eyes." 

"She's  been  so  kind  to  me !"  protested  Fluff  with  an  ex 
quisite  nobility. 

"You're  so  wonderful!"  blurted  Boly,  drawing  her  hand 
toward  him.  Still  she  made  no  sign  of  disapproval.  Dis 
tinctly  she  saw  a  light  skirt  fluttering  among  the  palms. 

"You're  not  going  right  back  to  Burgeonville  ?" 

"Day  after  to-morrow,"  she  told  him  with  a  sigh. 

"Tease  your  Aunt  Nan  to  let  you  stay  on  a  week  longer. 


372  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

We're  really  just  getting  acquainted.  I  want  to  teach  you 
how  to  like  New  York." 

"Rosie's  been  begging  me  to  stay." 

"There's  a  touch  o'  life  about  you,  Fluff.  You  can  show 
this  Quaker  Headquarters  how  to  keep  awake  after  meals. 
Dear  little  Fluff,  don't  you  see " 

It  happened  as  such  things  do ;  but  Fluff  could  not  re 
member  ever  before  having  been  kissed  so  ardently  upon 
so  brief  an  acquaintance. 

"Don't !"  she  whispered,  pulling  herself  away. 

Two  or  three  palms  away  a  bright  skirt  moved  and  a 
couple  walked  past  them  toward  the  dining  room 

"By  Jove,  I'm  sorry !"  he  apologised  thickly.  "I  hadn't 
the  least  notion  that  anybody " 

"How  dare  you !"  she  began  furiously.  Then  she  covered 
her  eyes  and  began  sobbing  like  a  child. 

"Fluff — Miss  Annister — upon  my  word " 

"This  sort  of  thing  I  don't  allow.  You  had  no  right  to 

take  advantage "  Her  protest  wandered  away  in  a 

storm  of  weeping. 

Boly  was  now  looking  wildly  round  the  room,  fearful  that 
the  encroaching  couple  would  come  back  upon  the  ridiculous 
scene. 

"It  was  only  a  little  kiss,  after  all,"  he  informed  her 
sheepishly. 

"They  saw  it — they  saw  it!"  she  gurgled. 

"I  never  had  any  luck!"  He  opened  his  cigarette  case 
and  found  it  empty.  "Put  me  to  matching  pennies  and  I 
lose  a  thousand  dollars."  He  shot  his  cuffs,  then  came  and 
stood  over  her.  "By  George — I  believe  you've  never  been 
kissed  before!" 

"I'm  not — used  to — that  sort  of — treatment.  People  who 
aren't  engaged  don't " 

"Oh,  for  the  matter  of  that " 

Boly  Pawley  sat  down  beside  her,  closer  than  ever  this 
time. 

"Fluff,"  he  began  solemnly,  "if  it's  the  custom  in  your 


MOTHER'S  MILK  373 

neck  of  the  woods  to  get  engaged  every  time  a  man  kisses 
you — believe  me,  I'm  game!" 

"You  mean  you're  proposing  to  me?"  She  looked  up, 
genuinely  dazzled  by  the  rapidity  of  events. 

"I'd  be  the  happiest  chap  in  the  world." 

"But " 

"Don't  tell  me  it's  sudden.    I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"We  haven't  known  each  other  an  hour,"  she  said;  and 
added  in  her  most  angelic  tone,  "Such  things  should  be 
sacred." 

"I'm  a  man  of  decision.  I've  gone  balmy  over  you.  Come 
on,  Fluff — be  a  good  sport." 

"Let  me  think " 

"No — you'd  decide  I  was  a  lemon.  Are  you  engaged  to 
that  man  from  Burgeonville  ?" 

"Oh,  him!"  she  exclaimed,  waiving  grammar. 

"You  think  I'm  a  nut,  maybe,  or  a  second-handed  propo 
sition  or " 

"I  think  you're  far,  far  too  good  for  me,  Boly.  And  if 
you  really  mean  it " 

"Dear  little  girl !" 

This  time  there  was  nobody  lurking  in  the  palms  and 
Fluff  Annister  was  permitted  to  enjoy  the  delirium  of  a 
Columbus  who,  having  gone  forth  to  prove  a  theory,  bumps 
into  the  greatest  real-estate  bonanza  of  all  time. 


It  was  getting  well  into  Lent,  Miss  Annister  having  de 
parted  weeks  ago — conveyed  to  the  Grand  Central  Station  in 
the  Pawley  car — when  Garry  Peabody  came  out  of  his 
library,  alternately  wiping  his  eyes  and  polishing  his  bifocals. 
He  found  Nan  sitting  under  the  petunia  curtains  in  the 
parlour.  Being  a  woman,  it  was  her  right  as  well  as  her  duty 
to  cry  upon  such  occasions,  and  she  was  exercising  her 
privilege. 


374 


SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 


"Well,  I've  talked  with  him,"  said  he,  settling  heavily  into 
a  fragile  chair. 

"Couldn't  they  put  the  wedding  off  till  June?"  asked  his 
wife.  "I  can't  think  of  losing  Rosie  so  soon." 

"Nope.  They  outvoted  me  two  to  one.  Charlie's  got  to 
start  for  Peru  next  week  at  the  latest  and  Rosie's  dead  set 
on  going  with  him." 

"I  have  a  feeling  I'll  never  see  her  again." 

"Shucks,  Nannie!"  He  came  over  and  gave  her  a  tre 
mendous  hug.  He  pulled  out  his  big  silver  watch  and 
consulted  its  oracular  face  ere  resuming, 

"Nan,  the  way  Rosie  dumped  that  Boly  and  took  up  with 
Charlie  White  was  one  of  the  biggest  victories  for  common- 
sense  since  Bryan  was  defeated." 

"I  was  fearfully  afraid  she'd  accept  Boly  some  time," 
said  Mrs.  Peabody,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"It  looks  just  as  though  Providence  kept  its  eye  on  the 
Peabody  family,"  admitted  Garry.  "I  got  you  just  in  time, 
you  know." 

"It  isn't  in  her  to  put  up  with  a  trifler,"  said  she. 

"No,  Nan.  Rosie's  your  daughter,  every  drop  of  blood. 
She's  got  a  winner  in  Charlie  and  she  knows  it.  You  ought 
to  hear  the  talk  she  gave  me  last  night  about  the  Big  Ad 
venture.  She's  in  love  with  that  boy.  He's  a  he-man.  She 
wants  to  start  out  and  rough  it  with  him." 

"The  way  I  wouldn't  be  satisfied  until  you'd  come  to  New 
York,"  Mrs.  Peabody  reminded  him. 

"Well,  there's  some  difference  between  the  upper  Andes 
and  New  York,"  Garry  pointed  out. 

"But  the  principle's  the  same." 

"You've  said  it,  Nan.  There's  something  romantic  about 
the  Penn  Yann  Whipples.  Whether  its  retail  drugs  or 
cantilever  bridges  they  want  to  see  their  men-folk  pioneer. 
Why,  Rosa  won't  be  satisfied  unless  she  sees  every  spike  her 
Charlie  drives  into  that  railroad  of  his.  She  wants  to  help 
lead  llamas — or  whatever  you  call  those  dago  jackrabbits — 
up  and  down  the  Andes.  In  other  words,  she's  alive,  Nan." 


MOTHER'S  MILK  375 

P"^ ^ ^™ ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^™^^^^^^^^ 

"I  know  how  it  is,"  said  his  gentle  wife,  giving  her  ad 
venturer  the  look  she  had  kept  for  him  ever  since  the 
Rainbow  Wedding. 

"Charlie's  going  to  South  America  on  three  thousand  a 
year.  I'd  back  him  myself  for  a  million  if  I  didn't  know 
the  Sudbury  Corporation  intend  to  push  him  to  the  top.  The 
whole  idea's  as  good  as  his." 

"He's  crazy  about  the  Andes — just  the  way  you  couldn't 
get  the  Jumbo  Stores  off  your  mind  until  you'd  tried." 

"There's  no  poetry  in  retail  drugs,  of  course." 

"How  can  you  say  that,  Garry?" 

What  an  epic,  indeed,  had  been  the  triumph  of  chain  drug 
stores,  progressing  from  up-State  to  the  Battery!  Garry 
Peabody  considered  a  moment. 

"Anyhow,"  said  he  at  last,  "it  was  a  mean  trick  to  play 
on  Fluff." 

"Fluff  ?"    Mrs.  Peabody  looked  her  surprise. 

"It  wasn't  quite  fair  to  wish  Boly  off  on  her.  If  she's 
made  up  her  mind  to  him — and  I  guess  she  has — she's  got  to 
get  used  to  being  tied  to  a  vain  little  chimpanzee  all  her  days. 
His  father's  money  will  last  a  year,  once  his  hands  are  free. 
No,  it  wasn't  exactly  fair  to  Fluff." 

"I  was  going  to  read  you  this  letter,"  broke  in  Nan  Pea- 
body.  "It  came  from  Sophie  this  morning,  but  we've  been 
so  unsettled " 

She  never  looked  at  him  as  she  passed  out  a  broken  en 
velope,  a  pinkish  bit  of  stationery  sealed  with  the  Annister 
crest.  The  sheet  was  scrawled  all  over  with  Sophie's  ram 
bling  sentences : — 

"Dearest  Nan: 

"Before  I  tell  you  my  great  news  I  feel  that  I  must  thank  you 
again  for  your  goodness  to  my  child  and  as  it  has  all  turned  out 
so  beautifully  you  can  imagine  that  I  am  very  grateful  to  you 
for  giving  her  such  opportunities,  but  these  things  you  yourself 
must  realise  as  I  know  you  have  considered  them  many  times, 
but  as  Rosie  lives  in  the  Metropolis  and  will  always  have  op 
portunities,  I  hope  neither  you  nor  she  will  bear  any  resentment 
to  my  little  wild-flower,  for  you  remember  le  bon  dieu  donne 


376  SUFFERING  HUSBANDS 

^^^^*^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^*^^         — 

les  beaux  yeux  and  when  you  consider  that  this  event  has 
saved  my  sweet  daughter  from  that  penniless  dreamer,  Charlie 
White,  I  feel  sure  you  will  forgive,  although  it  may  be  hard, 
but  Fluff  says  Rosie  is  very  sweet  looking  and  I  am  sure  that 
with  such  a  clever  mamma  she  will  have  her  chances. 

"It  did  my  heart  good  to  hear  my  dear  child  speak  again  and 
again  of  the  attentions  she  received  and  of  the  way  you  and 
Rosie  admired  her  pretty  clothes.  But  then,  I  always  knew 
clothes,  didn't  I,  dear? 

"And  now  for  my  news,  which,  although  it  makes  me  very 
happy,  cannot  but  bring  sadness  to  my  heart,  for  my  own  flesh 
and  blood  deceived  me,  which  is  always  distressing,  even 
though  the  cause  is  a  splendid  one.  Florence  went  by  train 
yesterday  to  meet  Bolingbroke  at  Exham,  where  he  arrived  in 
his  automobile,  and  so  drove  with  him  here,  the  trip  being  very 
pleasant.  When  they  had  not  returned  at  ten  o'clock  last 
night  I  was  naturally  alarmed,  and  imagine  my  sweet  pain 
when  the  telephone  rang,  and  it  was  long  distance  and  my  dear 
child's  voice  said  she  wanted  to  introduce  her  husband,  and 
then  Bolingbroke  called  me  Mother,  which  was  very  touching ! 

"I  had  hoped  to  ask  you  all  for  the  wedding,  which  naturally, 
considering  the  prominence  of  the  contracting  parties,  should 
have  been  an  elaborate  affair,  but  as  it  is,  though  wounded  to 
the  quick  I  must  make  the  best  of  it  and  show  a  bright  face 
to  my  darlings  when,  after  taking  the  Ideal  Tour,  including 
stops  at  all  the  most  exclusive  hotels  they  come  to  the  old  home. 

"With  love  to  all  and  my  tender  good  wishes  for  your  girl's 
good  fortune  and  thanking  you  again, 

"Your  affectionate  Cousin, 

"SOPHIA  ANNISTER." 

"Nannie,"  said  old  Garry,  handing  back  the  pinkish  en 
velope,  "I've  been  in  the  drug  business  nearly  thirty  years 
now  and  I've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there's  only  one 
brand  of  infants'  food  whose  results  can  be  guaranteed." 

"What's  that,  dear?"  asked  the  wife  who  never  tired 
of  her  husband's  theories. 

"Mother's  milk,"  replied  the  druggist. 

"Garry!" 


A     000040410     3 


